, and show the
most charming solicitude for her general comfort and welfare.

During this time my wife received constant notes from Ethel Newcome, and
the intimacy between the two ladies much increased. Laura was so unlike
the women of Ethel's circle, the young lady was pleased to say, that to
be with her was Ethel's greatest comfort. Miss Newcome was now her own
mistress, had her carriage, and would drive day after day to our
cottage at Richmond. The frigid society of Lord Farintosh's sisters, the
conversation of his mother, did not amuse Ethel, and she escaped from
both with her usual impatience of control. She was at home every day
dutifully to receive my lord's visits; but though she did not open her
mind to Laura as freely regarding the young gentleman as she did when
the character and disposition of her future mother and sisters-in-law
was the subject of their talk, I could see, from the grave look of
commiseration which my wife's face bore after her young friend's visits,
that Mrs. Pendennis augured rather ill of the future happiness of this
betrothed pair. Once, at Miss Newcome's special request, I took my wife
to see her in Park Lane, where the Marquis of Farintosh found us. His
lordship and I had already a half-acquaintance, which was not, however,
improved after my regular presentation to him by Miss Newcome: he
scowled at me with a countenance indicative of anything but welcome, and
did not seem in the least more pleased when Ethel entreated her friend
Laura not to take her bonnet, not to think of going away so soon. She
came to see us the very next day, stayed much longer with us than
usual, and returned to town quite late in the evening, in spite of the
entreaties of the inhospitable Laura, who would have had her leave us
long before. "I am sure," says clear-sighted Mrs. Laura, "she is come
out of bravado, and after we went away yesterday that there were words
between her and Lord Farintosh on our account."

"Confound the young man," breaks out Mr. Pendennis in a fume; "what does
he mean by his insolent airs?"

"He may think we are partisans de l'autre," says Mrs. Pendennis, with a
smile first, and a sigh afterwards, as she said "poor Clive!"

"Do you ever talk about Clive?" asks the husband.

"Never. Once, twice, perhaps, in the most natural manner in the world
we mentioned where he is; but nothing further passes. The subject is
a sealed one between us. She often looks at his drawings in my album
(Cl