ter touchstone in such a matter than Butterwell. He
would go as the world went, but he would perceive almost intuitively
how the world intended to go. "Tact, tact, tact," as he was in the
habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney
villa. Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had
been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr Butterwell's instinct
told him that Crosbie had fallen. Therefore he declined to offer any
sympathy to the man in his misfortune, and felt aware, as he left
the secretary's room, that it might probably be some time before he
visited it again.

Crosbie resolved in his soreness that henceforth he would brazen it
out. He would go to the Board, with as much indifference as to his
black eye as he was able to assume, and if any one said aught to him
he would be ready with his answer. He would go to his club, and let
him who intended to show him any slight beware of him in his wrath.
He could not turn upon John Eames, but he could turn upon others if
it were necessary. He had not gained for himself a position before
the world, and held it now for some years, to allow himself to be
crushed at once because he had made a mistake. If the world, his
world, chose to go to war with him, he would be ready for the fight.
As for Butterwell,--Butterwell the incompetent, Butterwell the
vapid,--for Butterwell, who in every little official difficulty had
for years past come to him, he would let Butterwell know what it was
to be thus disloyal to one who had condescended to be his friend. He
would show them all at the Board that he scorned them, and could be
their master. Then, too, as he was making some other resolves as to
his future conduct, he made one or two resolutions respecting the de
Courcy people. He would make it known to them that he was not going
to be their very humble servant. He would speak out his mind with
considerable plainness; and if upon that they should choose to break
off this "alliance," they might do so; he would not break his heart.
And as he leaned back in his arm chair, thinking of all this, an idea
made its way into his brain,--a floating castle in the air, rather
than the image of a thing that might by possibility be realised; and
in this castle in the air he saw himself kneeling again at Lily's
feet, asking her pardon, and begging that he might once more be taken
to her heart.

"Mr Crosbie is here to-day," said Mr Butterwell to Mr Optimist.

"O