hite cravats, and
none of his directors knew him when he came into the Bank in modern
costume. And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton lace at
the Orrys', for Winslow's wife said she saw it with her own eyes.

Mr. Lawrence Newt's talk ceased with that about business. When the
scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred the fire if
it were winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word for
Venables. Had Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is
called "Pelham," and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will
Mr. Venables call at Carville's on his way up, have the book charged
to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt's compliments, to
his sister? If it were summer he opened the window, when it happened to
be closed, and stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the
ships and the streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he
might have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars
apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon's cotton lace.

One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone in the inner
room; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces than
were bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, and
little books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper,
in the outer office of Lawrence Newt.

A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silent
activity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up a
moment, then went on with their work. It was clearly packet-day.

The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect
for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that
Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said,

"Well, Sir?"

"May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?"

"In the other room," said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth,
nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with both
hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia
book, and letting them gently down--proud of being the author of that
clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of
Lawrence Newt's business.

The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, "Come in," and, when
the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink in
it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, "Well, Sir? Be short. It's
packet-day."

"I want a place, Sir."

"What kind of a place?"

"In a store,