operty from his father. Upon the whole, though of course there must
be a sacrifice of money at first, Neefit thought that he saw his way.
Mr. Newton, too, had been very civil to his girl,--not simply making
to her foolish flattering little speeches, but treating her,--so
thought Neefit,--exactly as a high-bred gentleman would treat the
lady of his thoughts. It was a high ambition; but Neefit thought that
there might possibly be a way to success.

Mrs. Neefit had been a good helpmate to her husband,--having worked
hard for him when hard work on her part was needed,--but was not
altogether so happy in her disposition as her lord. He desired to
shine only in his daughter,--and as a tradesman. She was troubled
by the more difficult ambition of desiring to shine in her own
person. It was she who had insisted on migrating to Hendon, and
who had demanded also the establishment of a one-horse carriage.
The one-horse carriage was no delight to Neefit, and hardly gave
satisfaction to his wife after the first three months. To be driven
along the same roads, day after day, at the rate of six miles an
hour, though it may afford fresh air, is not an exciting amusement.
Mrs. Neefit was not given to reading, and was debarred by a sense of
propriety from making those beef-steak puddings for which, within her
own small household, she had once been so famous. Hendon she found
dull; and, though Hendon had been her own choice, she could not keep
herself from complaining of its dulness to her husband. But she
always told him that the fault lay with him. He ought to content
himself with going to town four times a week, and take a six weeks'
holiday in the autumn. That was the recognised mode of life with
gentlemen who had made their fortunes in trade. Then she tried to
make him believe that constant seclusion in Conduit Street was bad
for his liver. But above all things he ought to give up measuring his
own customers with his own hands. None of their genteel neighbours
would call upon his wife and daughter as long as he did that. But
Mr. Neefit was a man within whose bosom gallantry had its limits.
He had given his wife a house at Hendon, and was contented to take
that odious journey backwards and forwards six days a week to oblige
her. But when she told him not to measure his own customers, "he cut
up rough" as Polly called it. "You be blowed," he said to the wife
of his bosom. He had said it before, and she bore it with majestic
equanimity