s temper; his bonds would be of
silk; the rewards of his docility would be such as many a
self-assertive man might envy. But when Warburton tried to imagine
himself in such a position, a choked laugh of humourous disdain heaved
his chest.

He wandered homewards in a dream. He relived those moments on the
Embankment at Chelsea, when his common sense, his reason, his true
emotions, were defeated by an impulse now scarcely intelligible; he saw
himself shot across Europe, like a parcel despatched by express; and
all that fury and rush meaningless as buffoonery at a pantomime! Yet
this was how the vast majority of men "fell in love"--if ever they did
so at all. This was the prelude to marriages innumerable, marriages
destined to be dull as ditchwater or sour as verjuice. In love,
forsooth! Rosamund at all events knew the value of that, and had saved
him from his own infatuation. He owed her a lifelong gratitude.

That evening he re-read a long letter from Jane which had reached him
yesterday. His sister gave him a full description of the new home in
Suffolk, and told of the arrangement she had made with Miss Winter,
whereby, in a twelvemonth, she would be able to begin earning a little
money, and, if all went well, before long would become self-supporting.
Could he not run down to see them? Their mother had borne the removal
remarkably well, and seemed, indeed, to have a new vigour; possibly the
air might suit her better than at The Haws. Will mused over this, but
had no mind to make the journey just yet. It would be a pain to him to
see his mother in that new place; it would shame him to see his sister
at work, and to think that all this change was on his account. So he
wrote to mother and sister, with more of expressed tenderness than
usual, begging them to let him put off his visit yet a few weeks.
Presently they would be more settled. But of one thing let them be
sure; his daily work was no burden whatever to him, and he hardly knew
whether he would care to change it for what was called the greater
respectability of labour in an office. His health was good; his spirits
could only be disturbed by ill news from those he loved. He promised
that at all events he would spend Christmas with them.

September went by. One of the Sundays was made memorable by a visit to
Ashtead. Will had requested Franks to relate in that quarter the story
of Mr. Jollyman, and immediately after hearing it, Ralph Pomfret wrote
a warm-hearted le