em above the chances of
fortune. He reflected bitterly that it was not in his power to offer a
home to Lucy, and through her to her sister. What he had to do was to
stand by silently, to suffer other people to discuss what was to be done
for the woman whom he loved, and whose name was sacred to him. This was
a stretch of patience of which he was not capable. "I can only say
again," said the Curate, "that I think this discussion has gone far
enough. Whatever matters of business there may be that require
arrangement had better be settled between Mr Brown and Mr Waters. So far
as private feeling goes--"

"Never fear, I'll manage it," said Jack Wentworth, "as well as a dozen
lawyers. Private feeling has nothing to do with it. Have a cigar,
Wodehouse? We'll talk it over as we walk home," said the condescending
potentate. These words dispersed the assembly, which no longer had any
object. As Jack Wentworth sauntered out, his faithful follower pressed
through the others to join him. Wodehouse was himself again. He gave a
sulky nod to the Curate, and said, "Good-night, parson, I don't owe much
to you," and hastened out close upon the heels of his patron and leader.
All the authorities of Carlingford, the virtuous people who conferred
station and respectability by a look, sank into utter insignificance in
presence of Jack. His admiring follower went after him with a swell of
pride. He was a poor enough rogue himself, hustled and abused by
everybody, an unsuccessful and shabby vagabond, notwithstanding his new
fortune; but Jack was the glorified impersonation of cleverness and
wickedness and triumph to Wodehouse. He grew insolent when he was
permitted to put his arm through that of his hero, and went off with him
trying to copy, in swagger and insolence, his careless step and
well-bred ease. Perhaps Jack Wentworth felt a little ashamed of himself
as he emerged from the gate of the Rectory with his shabby and
disreputable companion. He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he looked
back and saw Gerald and Frank coming slowly out together. "_Coraggio!_"
said Jack to himself, "it is I who am the true philanthropist. Let us do
evil that good may come." Notwithstanding, he was very thankful not to
be seen by his father, who had wished to consult him as a man of the
world, and had shown certain yearnings towards him, which, to Jack's
infinite surprise, awakened responsive feelings in his own unaccustomed
bosom. He was half ashamed of thi