gth of Mrs.
Clive Newcome from his distinguished pencil. Never was seen a grander
exhibition of white satin and jewels. Smee, R.A., was furious at the
preference shown to his rival.

We had Sandy M'Collop, too, at the party, who had returned from Rome,
with his red beard, and his picture of the murder of the Red Comyn,
which made but a dim effect in the Octagon Room of the Royal Academy,
where the bleeding agonies of the dying warrior were veiled in an unkind
twilight. On Sandy and his brethren little Rosey looked rather coldly.
She tossed up her little head in conversation with me, and gave me to
understand that this party was only an omnium gatherum, not one of the
select parties, from which Heaven defend us. "We are Poins, and Nym, and
Pistol," growled out George Warrington, as he strode away to finish
the evening in Clive's painting- and smoking-room. "Now Prince Hal is
married, and shares the paternal throne, his Princess is ashamed of his
brigand associates of former days." She came and looked at us with a
feeble little smile, as we sat smoking, and let the daylight in on us
from the open door, and hinted to Mr. Clive that it was time to go to
bed.

So Clive Newcome lay in a bed of down and tossed and tumbled there. He
went to fine dinners, and sat silent over them; rode fine horses, and
black Care jumped up behind the moody horseman. He was cut off in a
great measure from the friends of his youth, or saw them by a kind of
stealth and sufferance; was a very lonely, poor fellow, I am afraid,
now that people were testimonialising his wife, and many an old comrade
growling at his haughtiness and prosperity.

In former days, when his good father recognised the difference which
fate, and time, and temper, had set between him and his son, we have
seen with what a gentle acquiescence the old man submitted to his
inevitable fortune, and how humbly he bore that stroke of separation
which afflicted the boy lightly enough, but caused the loving sire so
much pain. Then there was no bitterness between them, in spite of the
fatal division; but now, it seemed as if there was anger on Thomas
Newcome's part, because, though come together again, they were not
united, though with every outward appliance of happiness Clive was not
happy. What young man on earth could look for more? a sweet young wife,
a handsome home, of which the only encumbrance was an old father, who
would give his last drop of blood in his son's behalf. And it