hands are
washed of your affairs. But you can't live without money, and have no
means of making it that I see, though you have a fine talent in spending
it, and it is my belief that you will proceed as you have begun, and
ruin your mother before you are five years older.--Good morning; it is
time for me to go to breakfast. My engagements won't permit me to see
you much during the time that you stay in London. I presume that you
will acquaint your mother with the news which you have just conveyed to
me."

And pulling on his hat, and trembling in his limbs somewhat, Major
Pendennis walked out of his lodgings before his nephew, and went
ruefully off to take his accustomed corner at the Club. He saw the
Oxbridge examination-lists in the morning papers, and read over the
names, not understanding the business, with mournful accuracy. He
consulted various old fogies of his acquaintance, in the course of the
day, at his Clubs; Wenham, a Dean, various Civilians; and, as it is
called, "took their opinion," showing to some of them the amount of
his nephew's debts, which he had dotted down on the back of a card, and
asking what was to be done, and whether such debts were not monstrous,
preposterous? What was to be done?--There was nothing for it but to
pay. Wenham and the others told the Major of young men who owed twice
as much--five times as much--as Arthur, and with no means at all to pay.
The consultations, and calculations, and opinions, comforted the Major
somewhat. After all, he was not to pay.

But he thought bitterly of the many plans he had formed to make a man
of his nephew, of the sacrifices which he had made, and of the manner in
which he was disappointed. And he wrote off a letter to Doctor Portman,
informing him of the direful events which had taken place, and begging
the Doctor to break them to Helen. For the orthodox old gentleman
preserved the regular routine in all things, and was of opinion that it
was more correct to "break" a piece of bad news to a person by means of
a (possibly maladroit and unfeeling) messenger, than to convey it simply
to its destination by a note. So the Major wrote to Doctor Portman,
and then went out to dinner, one of the saddest men in any London
dining-room that day.

Pen, too, wrote his letter, and skulked about London streets for
the rest of the day, fancying that everybody was looking at him and
whispering to his neighbour, "That is Pendennis of Boniface, who was
plucked yester