rse for him to pursue. "They
consider themselves," says he, "above us, forsooth, in their rank of
life (oh, mercy! what pigmies we are! and don't angels weep at the brief
authority in which we dress ourselves up!) and of course the approaches
on our side must be made in regular form, and the parents of the young
people must act for them. Clive is too honourable a man to wish to
conduct the affair in any other way. He might try the influence of his
beaux yeux, and run off to Gretna with a girl who had nothing; but the
young lady being wealthy, and his relation, sir, we must be on the point
of honour; and all the Kews in Christendom shan't have more pride than
we in this matter."

All this time we are keeping Mr. Clive purposely in the background.
His face is so woebegone that we do not care to bring it forward in
the family picture. His case is so common that surely its lugubrious
symptoms need not be described at length. He works away fiercely at his
pictures, and in spite of himself improves in his art. He sent a "Combat
of Cavalry," and a picture of "Sir Brian the Templar carrying off
Rebecca," to the British Institution this year; both of which pieces
were praised in other journals besides the Pall Mall Gazette. He did not
care for the newspaper praises. He was rather surprised when a dealer
purchased his "Sir Brian the Templar." He came and went from our house a
melancholy swain. He was thankful for Laura's kindness and pity. J. J.'s
studio was his principal resort; and I dare say, as he set up his own
easel there, and worked by his friend's side, he bemoaned his lot to his
sympathising friend.

Sir Barnes Newcome's family was absent from London during the winter.
His mother, and his brothers and sisters, his wife and his two children,
were gone to Newcome for Christmas. Some six weeks after seeing him,
Ethel wrote her uncle a kind, merry letter. They had been performing
private theatricals at the country-house where she and Lady Kew were
staying. "Captain Crackthorpe made an admirable Jeremy Diddler in
'Raising the Wind.' Lord Farintosh broke down lamentably as Fusbos in
'Bombastes Furioso.'" Miss Ethel had distinguished herself in both of
these facetious little comedies. "I should like Clive to paint me as
Miss Plainways," she wrote. "I wore a powdered front, painted my face
all over wrinkles, imitated old Lady Griffin as well as I could, and
looked sixty at least."

Thomas Newcome wrote an answer to his fair n