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sneered at Lady John Turnbull's bad French, which her ladyship will introduce into all conversations in spite of the sneers of everybody; at Mrs. Slack Roper's extraordinary costume and sham jewels; at the old dandies and the young ones; — at whom did n’t he sneer and laugh 2 “You fire at everybody, Pen—you’re grown awful, that you are,” Foker said. “Now you've pulled about Blondel's yellow wig, and Colchicum's black one, why don't you have a shy at a brown one, hay? you know whose I mean. It got into Lady Clavering's carriage.” “Under my uncle's hat? My uncle is a martyr, Foker, my boy. My uncle has been doing excruciating duties all night. He likes to go to bed rather early. He has a dreadful headache if he sits up and touches supper. He always has the gout if he walks or stands much at a ball. He has been sitting up, and standing up, and supping. He has gone home to the gout and the headache, and for my sake. Shall I make fun of the old boy? no, not for Venice l’” “How do you mean that he has been doing it for your sake 7" Foker asked, looking rather alarmed. “Boy! canst thou keep a secret if I impart it to thee?” Pen cried out, in high spirits. “Art thou of good counsel ? Wilt thou swear? Wilt thou be mum, or wilt thou peach 7 Wilt thou be silent and hear, or wilt thou speak and die?” And as he spoke, flinging himself into an absurd theatrical attitude, the men in the cab-stand in Piccadilly wondered and grinned at the antics of the two young swells. “What the doose are you driving at 7” Foker asked, looking very much agitated. Pen, however, did not remark this agitation much, but continued in the same bantering and excited vein. “Henry, friend of my youth,” he said, “and witness of my early follies, though dull at thy books, yet thou art not altogether deprived of sense, – nay, blush not, Henrico, thou hast a good portion of that, and of courage and kindness too, at the service of thy friends. Were I in a strait of poverty, I would come to my Foker's purse. Were I in grief, I would discharge my grief upon his sympathizing bosom –” “Gammon, Pen—go on,” Foker said. “I would, Henrico, upon thy studs, and upon thy cambric worked by the hands of beauty, to adorn the breast of valor! Know then, friend of my boyhood's days, that Arthur Pendennis, of the Upper Temple, student-at-law, feels that he is growing lonely, and old Care is furrowing his temples, and Baldness is busy with his crown. Shall we stop and have a drop of coffee at this stall, it looks very hot and nice? Look how that cabman is blowing at his saucer. No, you won’t 2 Aristocratl I resume my tale. I am getting on in life. I have got devilish little money. I want some. I am thinking of getting some, and settling in life. I’m thinking of settling. I’m thinking of marrying, old boy. I’m thinking of becoming a moral man; a steady port and sherry character: with a good reputation in my quartier, and a moderate establishment of two maids and a man — with an occasional brougham to drive out Mrs. Pendennis, and a house near the Parks for the accommodation of the children. Ha! what sayest thou? Answer thy friend, thou worthy child of beer. Speak, I adjure thee by all thy vats.” “But you ain't got any money, Pen,” said the other, still looking alarmed. “I ain’t 2 No, but she 'ave. I tell thee there is gold in store for me—not what you call money,

nursed in the lap of luxury, and cradled on grains, and drinking in wealth from a thousand mash-tubs. What do you know about money? What is poverty to you, is splendor to the hardy son of the humble apothecary. You can't live without an establishment, and your houses in town and country. A snug little house somewhere off Belgravia, a brougham for my wife, a decent cook, and a fair bottle of wine for my friends at home sometimes; these simple necessaries suffice for me, my Foker.” And here Pendennis began to look more serious. Without bantering further, Pen continued, “I’ve rather serious thoughts of settling and marrying. No man can get on in the world without some money at his back. You must have a certãin stake to begin with, before you can go in and play the great game. Who knows that I’m not going to try, old fellow 7 Worse men than I have won at it. And as I have not got enough capital from my fathers, I must get some by my wife —that's all.” They were walking down Grosvenor Street, as they talked, or rather as Pen talked, in the selfish fulness of his heart; and Mr. Pen must have been too much occupied with his own affairs to remark the concern and agitation of his neighbor, for he continued — “We are no longer children, you know, you and I, Harry. Bah! the time of our romance has passed away. We don't marry for passion, but for prudence and for establishment. What do you take your cousin for ? Because she is a nice girl, and an Earl's daughter, and the old folks wish it, and that sort of thing.” “And you, Pendennis,” asked Foker, “you ain't very fond of the girl—you're going to marry?” Pen shrugged his shoulders. “Comme ca,” said he; “I like her well enough. She's pretty enough; she's clever enough. I think she’ll do very well. And she has got money enough—that's the great point. Psha! you know who she is, don't you? I thought you were sweet on her yourself one night when we dined with her mamma. It’s little Amory.” “I—I thought so,” Foker said: “and has she accepted you?” “Not quite,” Arthur replied, with a confident smile, which seemed to say, I have but to ask, and she comes to me that instant. “Oh, not quite,” said Foker; and he broke out with such a dreadful laugh, that Pen, for the first time, turned his thoughts from himself towards his companion, and was struck by the other's ghastly pale face. “My dear fellow, Fol what's the matter? You're ill,” Pen said, in a tone of real concern. “You think it was the champagne at Gaunt House, don't you? It ain’t that. Come in; let me talk to you for a minute. I’ll tell you what it is. D– it, let me tell somebody,” Foker said. They were at Mr. Foker's door by this time, and, opening it, Harry walked with his friend into his apartments, which were situated in the back part of the house, and behind the family dining-room, where the elder Foker received his guests, surrounded by pictures of himself, his wife, his infant son on a donkey, and the late Earl of Gravesend in his robes as a Peer. Foker and Pen passed by this chamber, now closed with deathlike shutters, and entered into the young man's own quarters. Dusky streams of sunbeams were playing into that room, and lighting up poor Harry's gallery of dancing girls and opera nymphs with flickering illuminations. “Look here! I can't help telling you, Pen,” he said. “Ever since the night we dined there, I’m so fond of that girl, that I think I shall die if I don't get her. I feel as if I should go mad sometimes. I can't stand it, Pen. I couldn't bear to hear you talking about her, just now, about marrying her only because she's money. Ah, Pen! that ain't the question in marrying. I’d bet anything it ain’t. Talking about money and such a girl as that, it's—it's—what-d'-ye-call-'em —you know what I mean—I ain't good at talking — sacrilege, then. If she'd have me, I’d take and sweep a crossing, that I would !” “Poor Fol I don't think that would tempt her,” Pen said, eying his friend with a great deal of real good-nature and pity. “She’s not a girl for love and a cottage.” “She ought to be a Duchess, I know that very well, and I know she wouldn't take me unless I could make her a great place in the world—for I ain't good for anything myself much — I ain't clever and that sort of thing,” Foker said sadly. “If I had all the diamonds that all the Duchesses and Marchionesses had on tonight, wouldn't I put 'em in her lap 2 But what’s the use of talking? I’m booked for another race. It’s that kills me, Pen. I can’t get out of it; though I die, I can't get out of it. And though my cousin's a nice girl, and I like her very well, and that, yet I hadn't seen this one when our Governors settled that matter between us. And when you talked, just now, about her doing very well, and about her having money enough for both of you, I thought to myself it is n’t money or mere liking a girl, that ought to be enough to make a fellow marry. He may marry, and find he likes somebody else better. All the money in the world won't make you happy then. Look at me; I’ve plenty of money, or shall have, out of the mash-tubs, as

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