ld he do so, he would sleep till ten
in his chair,--then he would read, and drink more tea, or perhaps
write, till one; and after that he would prowl about the purlieus of
Chancery Lane, the Temple, and Lincoln's Inn, till two or even three
o'clock in the morning;--looking up at the old dingy windows, and
holding, by aid of those powers which imagination gave him, long
intercourse with men among whom a certain weakness in his physical
organisation did not enable him to live in the flesh. Well the
policemen knew him as he roamed about, and much they speculated as to
his roamings. But in these night wanderings he addressed no word to
any one; nor did any one ever address a word to him. Yet the world,
perhaps, was more alive to him then than at any other period in the
twenty-four hours.

But on the present occasion the temptation was resisted. He had not
been at home during the whole week, and knew well that he ought to
give his daughters the countenance of his presence. Whether that
feeling alone would have been sufficient to withdraw him from the
charms of Chancery Lane and send him down to the villa may be
doubted; but there was that in the letter which he had perused so
carefully which he knew must be communicated to his girls. His niece,
Mary Bonner, was now an orphan, and would arrive in England from
Jamaica in about a fortnight. Her mother had been Sir Thomas's
sister, and had been at this time dead about three years. General
Bonner, the father, had now died, and the girl was left an orphan,
almost penniless, and with no near friend unless the Underwoods would
befriend her. News of the General's death had reached Sir Thomas
before;--and he had already made inquiry as to the fate of his niece
through her late father's agents. Of the General's means he had known
absolutely nothing,--believing, however, that they were confined to
his pay as an officer. Now he was told that the girl would be at
Southampton in a fortnight, and that she was utterly destitute. He
declared to himself as he stood on the steps of the club that he
would go home and consult his daughters;--but his mind was in fact
made up as to his niece's fate long before he got home,--before he
turned out of Pall Mall into St. James's Park. He would sometimes
talk to himself of consulting his daughters; but in truth he very
rarely consulted any human being as to what he would do or leave
undone. If he went straight, he went straight without other human
ligh