gher efforts of dishonesty. To get into a bank at midnight and
steal what little there may be in the till, or even an armful of
bank-notes, with the probability of a policeman catching you as you
creep out of the chimney and through a hole, is clumsy work; but to
walk in amidst the smiles and bows of admiring managers and draw out
money over the counter by thousands and tens of thousands, which you
have never put in and which you can never repay, and which, when all
is done, you have only borrowed;--that is a great feat."

"Do you really think so?"

"The courage, the ingenuity, and the self-confidence needed are
certainly admirable. And then there is a cringing and almost
contemptible littleness about honesty, which hardly allows it to
assert itself. The really honest man can never say a word to make
those who don't know of his honesty believe that it is there. He has
one foot in the grave before his neighbours have learned that he is
possessed of an article for the use of which they would so willingly
have paid, could they have been made to see that it was there. The
dishonest man almost doubts whether in him dishonesty is dishonest,
let it be practised ever so widely. The honest man almost doubts
whether his honesty be honest, unless it be kept hidden. Let two
unknown men be competitors for any place, with nothing to guide the
judges but their own words and their own looks, and who can doubt but
the dishonest man would be chosen rather than the honest? Honesty
goes about with a hang-dog look about him, as though knowing that
he cannot be trusted till he be proved. Dishonesty carries his eyes
high, and assumes that any question respecting him must be considered
to be unnecessary."

"Oh, Frank, what a philosopher you are."

"Well, yes; meditating about your diamonds has brought my philosophy
out. When do you think you will go to Scotland?"

"I am hardly strong enough for the journey yet. I fear the cold so
much."

"You would not find it cold there by the sea-side. To tell you the
truth, Lizzie, I want to get you out of this house. I don't mean to
say a word against Mrs. Carbuncle; but after all that has occurred,
it would be better that you should be away. People talk about you and
Lord George."

"How can I help it, Frank?"

"By going away;--that is, if I may presume one thing. I don't want to
pry into your secrets."

"I have none from you."

"Unless there be truth in the assertion that you are engaged to