his travels in the East. He had made up
his mind fully that there were in England only two occupations worthy
of an Englishman. A man should be known either as a politician or as
an author. It behoved a man to speak out what was in him with some
audible voice, so that the world might hear. He might do so either by
word of mouth, or by pen and paper; by the former in Parliament, by
the latter at his desk. Each form of speech had its own advantage.
Fate, which had made Harcourt a member of Parliament, seemed to
intend him, Bertram, to be an author.

Harcourt, though overwhelmed by business at this period, took
frequent occasion to be with Bertram; and when he was with him alone
he always made an effort to talk about Miss Waddington. Bertram was
rather shy of the subject. He had never blamed Harcourt for what had
taken place while he was absent in Paris, but since that time he had
never volunteered to speak of his own engagement.

They were together one fine May evening on the banks of the river
at Richmond. George was fond of the place, and whenever Harcourt
proposed to spend an evening alone with him, they would go up the
river and dine there.

On this occasion Harcourt seemed determined to talk about Miss
Waddington. Bertram, who was not in the best possible humour, had
shown, one might say plainly enough, that it was a subject on which
he did not wish to speak. One might also say that it was a subject as
to talking on which the choice certainly ought to have been left to
himself. A man who is engaged may often choose to talk to his friend
about his engaged bride; but the friend does not usually select
the lady as a topic of conversation except in conformity with the
Benedict's wishes.

On this occasion, however, Harcourt would talk about Miss Waddington,
and Bertram, who had already given one or two short answers, began to
feel that his friend was almost impertinent.

They were cracking decayed walnuts and sipping not the very best of
wine, and Bertram was expatiating on Sir Robert Peel's enormity in
having taken the wind out of the sails of the Whigs, and rehearsing
perhaps a few paragraphs of a new pamphlet that was about to come
out, when Harcourt again suddenly turned the conversation.

"By-the-by," said he, "I believe there is no day absolutely fixed for
your marriage."

"No," said Bertram, sharply enough. "No day has been fixed. Could
anything on earth have been more base than the manner in which he
ha