tigan then was absent, but Miss Fotheringay was at home washing the
tea-cups whilst Mr. Bows sate opposite to her.

"Just done breakfast I see--how do?" said Mr. Foker, popping in his
little funny head.

"Get out, you funny little man," cried Miss Fotheringay.

"You mean come in, answered the other.--Here we are!" and entering the
room he folded his arms and began twirling his head round and round with
immense rapidity, like Harlequin in the Pantomime when he first issues
from his cocoon or envelope. Miss Fotheringay laughed with all her
heart: a wink of Foker's would set her off laughing, when the bitterest
joke Bows ever made could not get a smile from her, or the finest
of poor Pen's speeches would only puzzle her. At the end of the
harlequinade he sank down on one knee and kissed her hand. "You're the
drollest little man," she said, and gave him a great good-humoured slap.
Pen used to tremble as he kissed her hand. Pen would have died of a
slap.

These preliminaries over, the three began to talk; Mr. Foker amused his
companions by recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed
of the discomfiture of Mr. Garbetts, by which they learned, for the
first time, how far the General had carried his wrath against Major
Pendennis. Foker spoke strongly in favour of the Major's character for
veracity and honour, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the
upper-circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit--much more
to deceive such a charming young woman as Miss Foth.

He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, though he
couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. In fact, he had a
perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high-flown sentimentality; his own
weakness, as he thought, not lying that way. "I knew it wouldn't do,
Miss Foth," said he, nodding his little head. "Couldn't do. Didn't like
to put my hand into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too young for
you: too green: a deal too green: and he turns out to be poor as Job.
Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. Bo?"

"Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay rather sadly.

"Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and
stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringay. Perhaps he thought and
wondered at the way in which women play with men, and coax them and win
them and drop them.

But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge that he thought
Miss Fotheringay was perfect