h his hands resting on his stomach before him, as though
he were much too humble to have any hopes of his own.

Sir Lionel was all smiles. What did he care? Not he. If that boy of
his should get anything, he, as an affectionate father, would, of
course, be glad. If not, why then his dear boy could do without it.
That was the intended interpretation of his look. And judging of
it altogether, he did not do it badly; only he deceived nobody. On
such occasions, one's face, which is made up for deceit, never does
deceive any one. But, in truth, Sir Lionel still entertained a higher
hope than any other of the listeners there. He did not certainly
expect a legacy himself, but he did think that George might still be
the heir. As Sir Henry was not to be, whose name was so likely? And,
then, if his son, his dear son George, should be lord of two, nay,
say only one, of those many hundred thousand pounds, what might not a
fond father expect?

Sir Henry was all frowns; and yet he was not quite hopeless. The
granddaughter, the only lineal descendant of the dead man, was still
his wife. Anything left to her must in some sort be left to him, let
it be tied up with ever so much care. It might still be probable
that she might be named the heiress--perhaps the sole heiress. It
might still be probable that the old man had made no new will since
Caroline had left his home in Eaton Square. At any rate, there would
still be a ground, on which to fight, within his reach, if Lady
Harcourt should be in any way enriched under the will. And if so, no
tenderness on his part should hinder him from fighting out that fight
as long as he had an inch on which to stand.

Bertram neither hoped anything, nor feared anything, except
this--that they would look at him as a disappointed man. He knew
that he was to have nothing; and although, now that the moment had
come, he felt that wealth might possibly have elated him, still the
absence of it did not make him in any degree unhappy. But it did make
him uncomfortable to think that he should be commiserated by Mr.
Pritchett, sneered at by Harcourt, and taunted by his father.

"Well, gentlemen, are we ready?" said Mr. Stickatit again. They were
all ready, and so Mr. Stickatit began.

I will not give an acute critic any opportunity for telling me that
the will, as detailed by me, was all illegal. I have not by me the
ipsissima verba; nor can I get them now, as I am very far from
Doctors' Commons. So I will