t when I die, Barnes," the uncle goes on. "I will give him every
shilling I am worth to-morrow morning, if he marries as I wish him."

"Tant mieux pour lui!" cries the nephew; and thought to himself, "Lady
Clara must ask Clive to dinner instantly. Confound the fellow. I hate
him--always have; but what luck he has!"

"A man with that property may pretend to a good wife, as the French say;
hey Barnes?" asks the Colonel, rather eagerly looking up in his nephew's
face.

That countenance was lighted up with a generous enthusiasm. "To any
woman, in any rank--to a nobleman's daughter, my dear sir!" exclaims Sir
Barnes.

"I want your sister; I want dear Ethel for him, Barnes," cries Thomas
Newcome, with a trembling voice, and a twinkle in his eyes. "That was
the hope I always had till my talk with your poor father stopped it.
Your sister was engaged to my Lord Kew then; and my wishes of course
were impossible. The poor boy is very much cut up, and his whole heart
is bent upon possessing her. She is not, she can't be, indifferent to
him. I am sure she would not be, if her family in the least encouraged
him. Can either of these young folks have a better chance of happiness
again offered to them in life? There's youth, there's mutual liking,
there's wealth for them almost--only saddled with the encumbrance of
an old dragoon, who won't be much in their way. Give us your good word,
Barnes, and let them come together; and upon my word the rest of my days
will be made happy if I can eat my meal at their table."

Whilst the poor Colonel was making his appeal, Barnes had time to
collect his answer; which, since in our character of historians we take
leave to explain gentlemen's motives as well as record their speeches
and actions, we may thus interpret. "Confound the young beggar!" thinks
Barnes, then. "He will have three or four thousand a year, will he? Hang
him, but it's a good sum of money. What a fool his father is to give it
away! Is he joking? No, he was always half crazy--the Colonel. Highgate
seemed uncommonly sweet on her, and was always hanging about our house.
Farintosh has not been brought to book yet; and perhaps neither of them
will propose for her. My grandmother, I should think, won't hear of her
making a low marriage, as this certainly is: but it's a pity to throw
away four thousand a year, ain't it?" All these natural calculations
passed briskly through Barnes Newcome's mind, as his uncle, from the
opposite side