of doing that."

Mark's heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. Mr. Forrest
had made so little of the whole transaction that he felt himself
justified in making little of it also. "It may be as well," said he
to himself, as he drove home, "not to tell Fanny anything about it
till the three months have run round. I must make some arrangement
then." And in this way his mind was easier during the last of those
three months than it had been during the two former. That feeling
of over-due bills, of bills coming due, of accounts overdrawn, of
tradesmen unpaid, of general money cares, is very dreadful at first;
but it is astonishing how soon men get used to it. A load which would
crush a man at first becomes, by habit, not only endurable, but
easy and comfortable to the bearer. The habitual debtor goes along
jaunty and with elastic step, almost enjoying the excitement of his
embarrassments. There was Mr. Sowerby himself; who ever saw a cloud
on his brow? It made one almost in love with ruin to be in his
company. And even now, already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself
quite comfortably about this bill;--how very pleasantly those bankers
managed these things. Pay it! No; no one will be so unreasonable
as to expect you to do that! And then Mr. Sowerby certainly was a
pleasant fellow, and gave a man something in return for his money. It
was still a question with Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too
hard on Sowerby. Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical friend
at the present moment, he might no doubt have gotten from him an
acceptance for another four hundred pounds.

One is almost inclined to believe that there is something pleasurable
in the excitement of such embarrassments, as there is also in the
excitement of drink. But then, at last, the time does come when the
excitement is over, and when nothing but the misery is left. If there
be an existence of wretchedness on earth it must be that of the
elderly, worn-out roue, who has run this race of debt and bills of
accommodation and acceptances--of what, if we were not in these
days somewhat afraid of good broad English, we might call lying and
swindling, falsehood and fraud--and who, having ruined all whom he
should have loved, having burnt up every one who would trust him
much, and scorched all who would trust him a little, is at last
left to finish his life with such bread and water as these men get,
without one honest thought to strengthen his sinking