. At
last he folded up a sheet upon which he had written--"Dearest Lily,
you are the only woman I may love; will you allow me to love you for
ever?" He put this into an envelope and directed it; nothing remained
but to post it. The clock told him he could catch the post if he
started away at once, but he drew back, frightened at the reality of
the post-office, and decided to sleep over his letter.

The night was full of Lily--fair, chaste dreams, whence he rose as
from a bath clothed in the samite of pure delight. While dressing he
felt sure that marriage--marriage with Lily must be the realization
of such dreams, and that it would be folly not to post his letter.
Still, it might be as well to hear the opinion of one who had taken
the important step, and after breakfast he drew Frank into
conversation about Lizzie.

"I am quite happy," he said. "Lizzie is a good wife, and I love her
better to-day than the day I married her; but the price I paid for
her was too high. Mount Rorke has behaved shamefully, and so has
everybody but you. I never see any of the old lot now. Snowdown came
once to dine about a year ago, but I never go anywhere where Lizzie
is not asked. Mount Rorke has only written once since my marriage,
and then it was to say he never wished to see me again. The next I
heard was the announcement of his marriage."

"So he has married again," said Mike, looking at Frank, and then he
thought--"So you who came from the top shall go to the bottom! Shall
he who came from the bottom go to the top?"

"I have not heard yet of a child. I have tried to find out if one is
expected; but what does it matter?--Mount Rorke wouldn't give me a
penny-piece to save me from starvation, and I should have time to
starve a good many times before he goes off the hooks. I don't mind
telling you I'm about as hard up as a man possibly can be. I owe
three quarters' rent for my rooms in Temple Gardens, nearly two
hundred pounds. The Inn is pressing me, and I can't get three hundred
for my furniture, and I'm sure I paid more than fifteen hundred for
what there is there."

"Why don't you sell a share in the paper?"

"I have sold a small part of it, a very small part of it, a fifth,
and there is a fellow called Thigh--you know the fellow, he has
edited every stupid weekly that has appeared and disappeared for the
last ten years--well, he has got hold of a mug, and by all accounts a
real mug, one of the right sort, a Mr. Beacham Brown.