Mrs. Mervale looked as if all the wrongs
of injured woman sat upon her brow. Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of
remorseful guilt and avenging bile. He said little, except to complain
of headache, and to request the eggs to be removed from the table.
Clarence Glyndon--impervious, unconscious, unailing, impenitent--was in
noisy spirits, and talked for three.

"Poor Mervale! he has lost the habit of good-fellowship, madam. Another
night or two, and he will be himself again!"

"Sir," said Mrs. Mervale, launching a premeditated sentence with more
than Johnsonian dignity, "permit me to remind you that Mr. Mervale is
now a married man, the destined father of a family, and the present
master of a household."

"Precisely the reasons why I envy him so much. I myself have a great
mind to marry. Happiness is contagious."

"Do you still take to painting?" asked Mervale, languidly, endeavouring
to turn the tables on his guest.

"Oh, no; I have adopted your advice. No art, no ideal,--nothing loftier
than Commonplace for me now. If I were to paint again, I positively
think YOU would purchase my pictures. Make haste and finish your
breakfast, man; I wish to consult you. I have come to England to see
after my affairs. My ambition is to make money; your counsels and
experience cannot fail to assist me here."

"Ah, you were soon disenchanted of your Philosopher's Stone! You must
know, Sarah, that when I last left Glyndon, he was bent upon turning
alchemist and magician."

"You are witty to-day, Mr. Mervale."

"Upon my honour it is true, I told you so before."

Glyndon rose abruptly.

"Why revive those recollections of folly and presumption? Have I not
said that I have returned to my native land to pursue the healthful
avocations of my kind! Oh, yes! what so healthful, so noble, so
fitted to our nature, as what you call the Practical Life? If we
have faculties, what is their use, but to sell them to advantage! Buy
knowledge as we do our goods; buy it at the cheapest market, sell it at
the dearest. Have you not breakfasted yet?"

The friends walked into the streets, and Mervale shrank from the irony
with which Glyndon complimented him on his respectability, his station,
his pursuits, his happy marriage, and his eight pictures in their
handsome frames. Formerly the sober Mervale had commanded an influence
over his friend: HIS had been the sarcasm; Glyndon's the irresolute
shame at his own peculiarities. Now this position was rev