AND I'LL TELL YOU."
XXXIV. ALONE IN THE HOUSE.
XXXV. "SHE'LL ACCEPT YOU, OF COURSE."
XXXVI. NEEFIT MEANS TO STICK TO IT.
XXXVII. "HE MUST MARRY HER."
XXXVIII. FOR TWO REASONS.
XXXIX. HORSELEECHES.
XL. WHAT SIR THOMAS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
XLI. A BROKEN HEART.
XLII. NOT BROKEN-HEARTED.
XLIII. ONCE MORE.
XLIV. THE PETITION.
XLV. "NEVER GIVE A THING UP."
XLVI. MR. NEEFIT AGAIN.
XLVII. THE WAY WHICH SHOWS THAT THEY MEAN IT.
XLVIII. MR. MOGGS WALKS TOWARDS EDGEWARE.
XLIX. AMONG THE PICTURES.
L. ANOTHER FAILURE.
LI. MUSIC HAS CHARMS.
LII. GUS EARDHAM.
LIII. THE END OF POLLY NEEFIT.
LIV. MY MARY.
LV. COOKHAM.
LVI. RALPH NEWTON IS BOWLED AWAY.
LVIII. CLARISSA'S FATE.
LVIII. CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

SIR THOMAS.

There are men who cannot communicate themselves to others, as there
are also men who not only can do so, but cannot do otherwise. And
it is hard to say which is the better man of the two. We do not
specially respect him who wears his heart upon his sleeve for daws to
peck at, who carries a crystal window to his bosom so that all can
see the work that is going on within it, who cannot keep any affair
of his own private, who gushes out in love and friendship to every
chance acquaintance; but then, again, there is but little love given
to him who is always wary, always silent as to his own belongings,
who buttons himself in a suit of close reserve which he never
loosens. Respect such a one may gain, but hardly love. It is natural
to us to like to know the affairs of our friends; and natural also,
I think, to like to talk of our own to those whom we trust. Perhaps,
after all that may be said of the weakness of the gushing and
indiscreet babbler, it is pleasanter to live with such a one than
with the self-constrained reticent man of iron, whose conversation
among his most intimate friends is solely of politics, of science, of
literature, or of some other subject equally outside the privacies of
our inner life.

Sir Thomas Underwood, whom I, and I hope my readers also, will have
to know very intimately, was one of those who are not able to make
themselves known intimately to any. I am speaking now of a man of
sixty, and I am speaking also of one who had never yet made a close
friend,--who had never by unconscious and slow degrees of affection
fallen into th