contemplated
departure of his pupil. When Arthur should go, Smirke's occupation and
delight would go too. What pretext could he find for a daily visit to
Fairoaks and that kind word or glance from the lady there, which was as
necessary to the Curate as the frugal dinner which Madame Fribsby served
him? Arthur gone, he would only be allowed to make visits like any other
acquaintance: little Laura could not accommodate him by learning the
Catechism more than once a week: he had curled himself like ivy round
Fairoaks: he pined at the thought that he must lose his hold of the
place. Should he speak his mind and go down on his knees to the widow?
He thought over any indications in her behaviour which flattered his
hopes. She had praised his sermons three weeks before: she had thanked
him exceedingly for his present of a melon, for a small dinner-party
which Mrs. Pendennis gave: she said she should always be grateful to
him for his kindness to Arthur, and when he declared that there were no
bounds to his love and affection for that dear boy, she had certainly
replied in a romantic manner, indicating her own strong gratitude and
regard to all her son's friends. Should he speak out?--or should he
delay? If he spoke and she refused him, it was awful to think that the
gate of Fairoaks might be shut upon him for ever--and within that door
lay all the world for Mr. Smirke.

Thus, oh friendly readers, we see how every man in the world has his own
private griefs and business, by which he is more cast down or occupied
than by the affairs or sorrows of any other person. While Mrs. Pendennis
is disquieting herself about losing her son, and that anxious hold she
has had of him, as long as he has remained in the mother's nest, whence
he is about to take flight into the great world beyond--while the
Major's great soul chafes and frets, inwardly vexed as he thinks what
great parties are going on in London, and that he might be sunning
himself in the glances of Dukes and Duchesses, but for those cursed
affairs which keep him in a wretched little country hole--while Pen
is tossing between his passion and a more agreeable sensation,
unacknowledged yet, but swaying him considerably, namely, his longing
to see the world--Mr. Smirke has a private care watching at his bedside,
and sitting behind him on his pony; and is no more satisfied than the
rest of us. How lonely we are in the world; how selfish and secret,
everybody! You and your wife have p