she made her way into the Park, and the rapid Foker made
his dash forward. What to do? Just to get a nod of recognition from Miss
Amory and her mother; to cross them a half-dozen times in the drive; to
watch and ogle them from the other side of the ditch, where the horsemen
assemble when the band plays in Kensington Gardens. What is the use of
looking at a woman in a pink bonnet across a ditch? What is the earthly
good to be got out of a nod of the head? Strange that men will be
contented with such pleasures, or if not contented, at least that they
will be so eager in seeking them. Not one word did Harry, he so fluent
of conversation ordinarily, change with his charmer on that day. Mutely
he beheld her return to her carriage, and drive away among rather
ironical salutes from the young men in the Park. One said that the
Indian widow was making the paternal rupees spin rapidly; another said
that she ought to have burned herself alive, and left the money to her
daughter. This one asked who Clavering was?--and old Tom Eales, who knew
everybody, and never missed a day in the Park on his grey cob, kindly
said that Clavering had come into an estate over head and heels in
mortgage: that there were dev'lish ugly stories about him when he was
a young man, and that it was reported of him that he had a share in
a gambling-house, and had certainly shown the white feather in his
regiment. "He plays still; he is in a hell every night almost," Mr.
Eales added.

"I should think so, since his marriage," said a wag.

"He gives devilish good dinners," said Foker, striking up for the honour
of his host of yesterday.

"I daresay, and I daresay he doesn't ask Eales," the wag said. "I say,
Eales, do you dine at Clavering's,--at the Begum's?"

"I dine there?" said Mr. Eales, who would have dined with Beelzebub if
sure of a good cook, and when he came away, would have painted his host
blacker than fate had made him.

"You might, you know, although you do abuse him so," continued the wag.
"They say it's very pleasant. Clavering goes to sleep after dinner; the
Begum gets tipsy with cherry-brandy, and the young lady sings songs to
the young gentlemen. She sings well, don't she, Fo?"

"Slap up," said Fo. "I tell you what, Poyntz, she sings like a
whatdyecallum--you know what I mean--like a mermaid, you know, but
that's not their name."

"I never heard a mermaid sing," Mr. Poyntz, the wag, replied. "Whoever
heard a mermaid? Eales, you are an