since her visit to leavesley miss hancock felt certain that her system of petty espionage had been discovered: the question remained as to what course her brother would take. he had as yet said nothing.

one fact stood before her very plainly: his infatuation for miss lambert. she had examined fanny very attentively, and despite the fact that she had plotted and planned for years to keep her brother single, had he at that moment entered the room with the news that he was engaged to be married to george lambert's daughter, she would have received it not altogether as a blow. in her lifelong opposition to his marrying, she had always figured his possible wife as a woman who would oust her, but fanny was totally unlike all other[pg 275] girls she had ever met—very different from miss wilkinson and the other middle-class young women, with minds of their own, from whom she had fortunately or unfortunately guarded her brother. there were new possibilities about fanny. she was so soft and so charmingly irresponsible that the idea of hectoring, ordering, directing and generally sitting upon her was equivalent to the idea of a new pleasure in life. to order, to put straight, to admonish were functions as necessary to miss hancock's being as excretion or respiration; a careless housemaid to correct, or a shiftless friend to advise, called these functions into play; and the process, however it affected the housemaid or the friend, left miss hancock a healthier and happier woman.

the almighty, who, however we may look at the fact, made the fly to be the intimate companion of the spider, seemed in the construction of miss lambert to have had the vital requirements of miss hancock decidedly in view.

she had almost begun to form plans as to fanny's dress allowance, in the event of her marriage—how it should be spent; her hair,[pg 276] how it should be dressed; and her life, how it should be generally made a conglomeration of petty miseries.

on the night before the day bevan left for sussex mr hancock and his great toe had a conversation. what his right great toe said to mr hancock that night i will report very shortly for the benefit of elderly gentlemen in general; anacreon has said the thing much better in verse, but verse is out of date. said the right great toe of mr hancock in a monologue punctuated with the stabs of a stiletto:

"how old are you? sixty-three? (stab), that's what you say, but you know very well you were born sixty-five years and six months ago. wake up (stab, stab), you must not go to sleep. sixty-five—five years more and you will be seventy; fifteen years more and you'll be eighty, and you are in love (stab, stab, stab). i'll teach you to eat sweet cakes and ice creams; i'll (stab) teach you to drink burgundy. and you dared to call me arthritic rheumatism the other night, you (stab) dared! now, go to sleep (stab, stab) ... wake up again, i want to speak to you," etc., etc., etc.

[pg 277]

gout talks to one very like a woman: you cannot reply to it, it simply talks on.

at eight o'clock next morning, when miss hancock left her room, boffins informed her that her brother was ill and wished to see her.

"i'm all right," said james, who was lying in bed with the sheets up to his nose, "i'm all right—for heaven's sake, don't fidget with that window blind—i want my letters brought up; shan't go to the office to-day. you can send round and tell bridgewater to call, and send for carter, i've got a touch of this arthritic rheumatism (ow!)—do ask that servant to make less row on the stairs. no, don't want any breakfast."

"well, hancock," said dr carter, when he arrived, "got it again—whew! there's a foot! what have you been eating?"

"nothing," groaned the patient; "it's worry has done it, i believe."

"now, don't talk nonsense. what have you been eating and drinking?"

"well, i believe i had an ice-cream some days ago, and—a cake."

"an ice-cream, and a cake, and a glass of port—come, confess your sins."

[pg 278]

"no, a glass of burgundy."

"an ice-cream, and a cake, and a glass of burgundy—well, you can commit suicide if you choose, but i can only warn you of this that if you wish to commit suicide in a most unpleasant manner you'll do such a thing again."

"dash it, carter—oh, lord! go gently, don't touch it there! what's the good of being alive? i remember the days when i could drink a whole bottle of port without turning a hair."

"i know—but you're not as young as you were then, hancock."

"oh, do say something original—say i'm getting old, and have done with it!"

"it's not your age so much as your diathesis," said the pitiless carter. "it's unfortunate for you, but there you are. you might be worse, every man is born with a disease. yours is gout—you might be worse. suppose you had aneurism? now, here's a prescription; get it made up at once. thank goodness, you can stand colchicum."

"how long will it be before i'm all right?"

[pg 279]

"a week, at least."

"oh lord!"

"there, you are grumbling. remember, my dear fellow, that living is a business as well as lawyering. take life easy, and forget the office for a few days."

"i wasn't thinking of the office—give me that writing-case over there; i must write a letter."

when bridgewater arrived half an hour later, he found his master laboriously addressing an envelope.

"take that and post it, bridgewater." bridgewater took it and placed it in his pocket without looking at the address upon it, and having reported on the morning letters, and received advice as to dealing with one or two matters, ambled off on his errand.

that evening at five o'clock, when patience brought him up a cup of tea and the evening newspaper, james, considerably eased by the colchicum and pills of dr carter, said: "put the tea on the table there, and sit down, patience. i wish to speak to you."

patience sat down, took her knitting from her apron pocket, and began to knit.

[pg 280]

"i have written a letter to-day to miss lambert."

"oh!"

"an important letter, a vitally important letter to me."

"you mean, james, that you have written a letter of proposal—that you intend, in short, to marry miss lambert?"

"that is precisely my meaning."

"humph!"

"does the idea displease you?"

"yes, and no."

"please explain what you mean by 'yes' and 'no'; the expression lacks lucidity, to say the least of it."

"i mean that it would be much better for you to remain as you are; but if you do intend to commit yourself in this way, well—miss lambert is at least a lady."

the keen eye of james examined his sister's face as she spoke, and he knew that what she said she meant. despite all his tall talk to bridgewater about sending his sister packing her influence upon him was very strong; thirty years of diffidence to her opinion in the minor details of life had not passed without leaving[pg 281] their effect upon his will; besides he, as a business man, had great admiration for her astuteness and power of dealing with things. active opposition to his matrimonial plans would not have altered them, but it would have made him unhappy.

"i am glad you think that," he said. "give me the tea."

"mind," said miss hancock, as she handed the beverage, "i wash my hands of the matter; i think it distinctly unwise, considering your age, considering her age, considering everything."

"well, all that lies with me. you will be civil and kind to her, patience?"

"it is not my habit to be unkind to any one. you have written, you say, to her to-day; you wrote without consulting me—the step is taken, and you must abide by it. i hope it will be for your happiness, james."

he was watching her intently, and was satisfied.

"i wish," he said, putting the cup down on the table beside the bed, "i wish you knew her better."

"i will call upon her," said miss hancock,[pg 282] counting her stitches; "she left her parasol behind her last night, i will take it back to her——"

"no, don't, for goodness sake!" said james, the lambert ménage rising before him, and also a vague dread that his sister, despite her appearance and words of goodwill—or rather semi-goodwill—might be traitorously disposed at heart. "at least—i don't know—i suppose it would be the right thing to do."

"i am not especially anxious to call," said miss hancock, who had quite made up her mind to journey to highgate on the morrow and spy out the land of the lamberts for herself. "in fact, the only possible day i could call would be to-morrow before noon. i have a meeting in sloane square to attend at five, and on wednesday i have three engagements, two on thursday; friday i have to spend the day with aunt catherine at windsor, where i will remain over sunday."

"well, call to-morrow and bring her back her parasol—oh, damn!"

"james!"

"oh lord! i thought some one had shot a bullet into my foot. give me the medicine,[pg 283] quick, and send round for carter. i must have some opium, or i won't sleep a wink."

miss hancock administered the dose, and retired downstairs, when she sent a message to dr carter and ordered the lilac parasol of miss lambert to be wrapped in paper. then she sent a message to the livery stables to order the hired brougham, which she employed several times a week, to be in attendance at 9.30 the following morning, to drive her to highgate.

but next morning her brother was so bad that she could not leave him. but she called one morning later on.