m the necessity of looking at
Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was
clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device,
round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much
enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young
Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full
fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this
small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole
family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities
paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after
something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange
peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another
such case!

At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young
Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan
went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken
the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam
had been a little reserved since breakfast--that is to say, would have
been, if he had loved her.

When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the
chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to
ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After
settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan--who
would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.

'Those are not good prospects for a painter,' said Clennam.

'No,' returned Doyce.

Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his
pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet
perception in his face that they were going to say something more. 'I
thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after he
came this morning?' said Clennam.

'Yes,' returned Doyce.

'But not his daughter?' said Clennam.

'No,' said Doyce.

There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of
his candle, slowly resumed:

'The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of
separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like
him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say
you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.'

'The