re about it. It's nothing to me.
Arthur can do very well in the world without Emily Wharton. Only a
girl like that will sometimes make a disgraceful match; and we should
all feel that."

"I don't think Emily will do anything disgraceful," said Lady
Wharton. And so they parted.

In the meantime the two brothers were smoking their pipes in the
housekeeper's room, which, at Wharton, when the Fletchers or Everett
were there, was freely used for that purpose.

"Isn't it rather quaint of you," said the elder brother, "coming down
here in the middle of term time?"

"It doesn't matter much."

"I should have thought it would matter;--that is, if you mean to go
on with it."

"I'm not going to make a slave of myself about it, if you mean that.
I don't suppose I shall ever marry,--and as for rising to be a swell
in the profession, I don't care about it."

"You used to care about it,--very much. You used to say that if you
didn't get to the top it shouldn't be your own fault."

"And I have worked;--and I do work. But things get changed somehow.
I've half a mind to give it all up,--to raise a lot of money, and
to start off with a resolution to see every corner of the world. I
suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if he lived so long.
It's the kind of thing would suit me."

"Exactly. I don't know any fellow who has been more into society,
and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for the rest of
your life. You've always worked hard, I will say that for you;--and
therefore you're just the man to be contented with idleness. You've
always been ambitious and self-confident, and therefore it will
suit you to a T, to be nobody and to do nothing." Arthur sat
silent, smoking his pipe with all his might, and his brother
continued,--"Besides,--you read sometimes, I fancy."

"I should read all the more."

"Very likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for instance,
must have taught you that when a man is cut up about a woman,--which
I suppose is your case just at present,--he never does get over
it. He never gets all right after a time,--does he? Such a one
had better go and turn monk at once, as the world is over for him
altogether;--isn't it? Men don't recover after a month or two, and go
on just the same. You've never seen that kind of thing yourself?"

"I'm not going to cut my throat or turn monk either."

"No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that travelling
seems easier. Suppose y