I had breakfasted by nine the next morning, and after a conversation with my landlady respecting matters of much too mean a nature to figure in this fastidious narrative, I filled my pipe, put on my hat, and went out.

The morning was lovely; I never drew breath with a keener enjoyment of life; the garden in front of Mrs. Reeves’ house was small, but plentifully stocked; the wall-flowers made the air delicious, and I could have very well passed a whole hour standing at the gate smoking my pipe, and watching the quiet interests with which the long street was peopled.

Whilst I lingered, debating which way I should go, I beheld a smart vehicle approaching, and recognised my uncle’s phaeton. He was in it, and waved his hand to me.

“Up already!” he cried, springing briskly into the road. “Conny has lost a pair of gloves. She bet me that I should find you in bed.”

“She deserves to lose,” said I, laughing, “for having such a bad opinion of me.”

“How did you sleep? Did you like your rooms? Is Mrs. Reeves obliging? Is your bed comfortable?” were some among the many questions my uncle asked me in his cheery, cordial manner; and hearing that I was perfectly satisfied and happy, he asked me what I meant to do? I told him that I was about to take a walk and see the town.

“Come, first, and let me show you the bank. We open at half-past nine.”

I put my pipe in my pocket, and scrambled up into the back seat, and away we clattered down the High Street, through the ancient gateway, and round the corner, stopping before a new building over which the word “Bank” was engraved. My uncle led the way in. The office was clean and new, and made fearfully business-like by a counter and high stools and advertisement-charts of insurance offices. A young man stepped from behind a ground-glass front, and my uncle introduced him to me as Mr. Curling. I bowed loftily, and fixed a scrutinising eye upon the young gentleman. He was more cordial, and offered me his hand.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Hargrave,” said he.

“I am much obliged to you,” I replied.

“Yonder is Mr. Spratling,” said my uncle, smiling at the youth who had turned his head on hearing his name pronounced. I nodded, and Mr. Spratling stared. My uncle then went round the counter, calling to me to follow, and going up to a desk behind the ground-glass front, said, “This will be your place, Charlie,” and watched my face; but I said nothing, though I could have commented in very forcible terms upon the immense inconvenience it would be to me—a lounger born—of having to sit on a high stool all day and write down dry bucolic names and rows of figures in a huge book called a ledger. My uncle then conducted me into his private office at the back, and leaning against the table, asked me, with a rather humorous twinkle in his eye, “How my look-out struck me?”

“I’ll tell you what,” I answered, seating myself, for it was always my opinion that you can’t make a greater mistake than to stand when you can sit; “I’ll tell you what, uncle; you are such a thoroughly good fellow, with so nice a sense of what is due to a gentleman, that I believe, after a little, I shall be able to endure this life. But in any other office than yours, with any other man but you over me, I could no more submit to have a counter placed between me and society, than I could submit to cleaning boots.”

He laughed heartily, and clapping me on the shoulder, exclaimed,

“I don’t mean you to be a clerk; all that I want you to do is to learn the business. I have plans for you, which both you and your father will like, I believe. But you must learn the business. I don’t mean you to do any dry or mean work, such as collecting bills. Look over young Spratling’s shoulder now and then, and observe what he is about. Pump Mr. Curling—he is good-natured and a smart hand—and get all the information you can out of him.”

“Oh, I will, with pleasure.”

“You needn’t fear any ill-feeling. They know you are my nephew, and I have told them that your father has sent you to me to learn business habits, and to qualify you for becoming—well, I shall have more to say to you about the future before long. I have a good scheme in my head.”

“You are all kindness,” I answered. “Every moment I am with you makes me think of Longueville with less regret.”

“All right,” he exclaimed, looking immensely gratified and amiable. “And now, as I told you last night, I don’t want you to formally join us until Monday. You are under an engagement to my wife—who, I can assure you, has fallen in love with you!—to dine with us every day—that is, if you like; and she takes you under her protection until Monday morning, when she will consign you to me. She has ordered the carriage at eleven, and means, I believe, to take you a drive round the town, and show you what there is to be seen. The phaeton will convey you to Grove End.”

Here Mr. Spratling came in, and said Mr. Clover wanted an audience. I took my hat, but before I went out, my uncle called me back to whisper, “You’ll find a box of cigars in the library,” and dismissed me with a cheerful push. Mr. Curling bowed as I passed out, and I returned his salute politely. I felt more at my ease now that my uncle had told me that these young men were to regard me as a gentleman who had condescended to join the bank merely for the purpose of acquiring business habits. I cannot say that I thought Mr. Curling good-looking. His eyes indeed were not bad; but he didn’t look a manly sort of fellow. He was narrow and thin-breasted, and had curly black hair, which I detest. His teeth were good, and his smile so-so, but his dress was outrÉ, ill-fitting, and he wore a ring on the first finger of his right hand—the hand he wrote with, the finger he pointed with—which affected me more disagreeably than had he said “You was,” and dropped his h’s and g’s. It was ridiculous to suppose that golden-haired Conny could see anything in such a man as that. As to Spratling, he looked a harmless little fellow; his head and hands were immense, and his shoulders broad enough for a man of my father’s height; yet he might have walked under my arm.

I cocked my hat as I strolled past the counter with a slow and indolent step; and stopped, when on the pavement, full in the sight of Mr. Curling, to light a cigar, though I should have preferred a pipe. I then got into the phaeton, and was driven to Grove End.

My aunt received me in the most gracious manner. The first question she asked me was, if I had breakfasted: and, on my replying in the affirmative, eagerly questioned me about my lodgings. Was I quite sure I was comfortable, she wanted to know; because, if I was not, there was a delightful bed-room, entirely at my service, at the back of the house, and she would give orders at once for it to be got ready. I hope I showed her that my gratitude was equal to her kindness. Indeed I was almost embarrassed by the extraordinary civilities I had met with; and, though I believe there was not another man in England, at that time, who had a better opinion of himself than I had, yet I must do myself the justice to declare that I did not conscientiously believe I deserved the kindness I received.

Presently the door opened and in came Conny. She gave me her hand, which I raised to my lips.

“That is a German fashion,” said I, rather dismayed by her extravagant blush.

“Is it?” she answered, turning her head aside and looking half angry and half pleased. “I thought it wasn’t English.”

“The French kiss each other on both cheeks, don’t they?” inquired my aunt with naÏve interest.

“The men do, and I also believe it is customary among lovers. But I fancy that the custom does not prevail amongst the married folks, from the story that is told of a Frenchman, who, hearing that a friend of his had kissed his wife, cried ‘Quoi! sans y etre obligÉ!’”

You see, I meant to mingle sarcasm with humour, and to shine as a wit; but to crack a joke with my aunt was like pulling a cracker at a supper-table with your partner, who gets only a piece of the paper, and leaves the sweetmeat and the motto with you.

“Dear me!” said she. “Now I should have thought such a custom would have been entirely confined to the married people.”

I looked at Conny. How was she dressed? Now you want to puzzle me. Was it black silk? I believe it was. Whatever the material, it was dark enough to set off the transporting whiteness of her throat, and to make the curl that gleamed down her back shine (to use the language of an imitator of Ossian) like the lustrous wake of a meteor upon the midnight sky. What pearly teeth! What a surprisingly dainty complexion! Where did this girl learn to dress her hair? Never did I see hair so becomingly dressed. Is she to be my heroine? Nous verrons; but I rather fear, if she is to be my heroine, that hair of hers won’t serve any dramatic exigencies. How could it flow, as all heroines’ gold-coloured hair ought to flow, at an instant’s notice, in a bright cloud over a pillar of a man’s throat, if it is dressed so well and firmly? All we dare hope is that we shall meet with no pillars (columns I think they call them) for Conny’s hair to flow over. But if a column or a pillar of a throat will interfere, in spite of our earnest remonstrances, let us at least trust that the hair-pins will do their duty, and maintain the respectability of passion by holding the pads and puffs and frizettes in their proper places.

“I hope,” said I, following her to the window, “that my foreign manners haven’t ruined me in your good opinion?”

“I told you last night that cousins are privileged.”

“They ought to be.”

“Are you going for a drive with us?”

“Yes, if I may.”

“Oh, mamma ordered the carriage expressly for you.”

I turned to mamma, who sat smiling at us, behind our backs, and thanked her.

“I thought you would like to see the town, Mr. Charles.”“Pray call me Charlie,” said I, “or your example will give Conny an excuse to treat me with reserve. You see how familiarly I name her. But I got her leave to do so.”

“Oh, cousins ought always to be on the very best terms! Aren’t they made of the same flesh and blood?” said my aunt.

“Of course they are,” I replied.

“Conny,” said her mamma, “will you go and get ready for the drive, so that you can show Mr. ——, I mean Charlie, over the grounds, while I put on my things?”

“Yes,” answered Conny, and went out.

My aunt chatted about a variety of commonplaces; and my sense of self-complacency, which, God knows, was already impertinent enough, was not a little heightened by the marked deference and laboured urbanity of her manner to me. Had I been a prince of the blood royal, I don’t think she could have shown herself more flattered by my conversation, and more obliged by my condescension. There could be no doubt that her husband had inspired her with the most extravagant conceptions of the importance and splendour of his brother, the major. The pride of relationship, when there is anything to be proud of, is a sentiment, Eugenio, which springs eternal in all human breasts; it enables wives to snub their husbands with applause, and husbands to humiliate their wives with impunity; it gives importance to poverty and dignity to vulgarity; it embroiders the rags of the beggar, and justifies the impertinencies of unresisting imbecility. No, Eugenio, I am not quoting from “Rasselas.” This is all my own thunder.

When Conny came in my aunt left the room.

“Pray forgive me,” said I, “but, really, that is a lovely little hat you have on.”

“I am glad you like it,” answered my cousin, looking at herself in the glass.

“All feminine attire is becoming that looks saucy. Don’t you think so?”

“Is this hat saucy?”

“Very. There is a knowing expression about the feather, as though it has just been pulled out of a peacock’s tail, and the eye hasn’t had time to stop winking.”

“What an odd idea! but this isn’t a peacock’s feather!”

What! was she going to prove as literal as her mamma? Defend it, ye Nine!“And then,” I went on, “there is an audacity about the curve of the brim, that fills me with irrepressible delight. Let me assure you, dear cousin, that it is the very hat of all the hats that ever were made, which you ought to wear.”

“It was my choice,” said she, looking at me as though she were a little afraid. “But the carriage will soon be ready, and mamma wanted me to show you over the grounds before we drove out.”

“I would much rather sit here with you,” I replied. “I can look at the grounds this afternoon.”

“As you please,” said she prettily, seating herself in her mamma’s chair.

She fronted the window, in consequence the light was full upon her face, and I was able to see every expression that rose and faded in it.“Your father introduced me to the bank this morning,” said I, fixing my eye upon her.

“Yes?”

“I had the honour of making the acquaintance of Mr. Curling.”

I expected to see her wince and change colour. On the contrary, she remained perfectly impassive. She did not even ask me what I thought of him, or if I liked him, or anything about him. All she said was, “I hope you and he will get on together. He seems a very nice sort of young man.”

Love prompts a thousand absurdities; but never in all my experience of life could I conceive a girl calling the object of her affection “a nice young man.” The phrase smote me as the death-knell of Curling’s hopes, if he had any.“I don’t very much care about nice young men,” I answered. “I have been bred in a land of piquant sauces and thickly peppered dishes, and like things well flavoured. A nice person is a boiled character which you have to discuss without salt.”

“I know what you mean,” she exclaimed gaily. “Mr. Meek, our doctor here, is a boiled character, full of what papa calls negative excellence, which means thorough insipidity.”

I was much gratified to find her capable of appreciating my jokes. It did seem impossible that such demure, sweet, intelligent eyes as hers should be the windows of a sluggish, dull nature. I was resolved to try her a little more on the subject of the cashier.

“Your father gave me to understand that Mr. Curling was good-looking. How people differ in their tastes? Now I think Mr. Curling anything but good looking.”

“He is very thin.”

“Very; one thing I noticed, the cockneyfication of his person by a big ring on his first finger. These fellows ought to go abroad now and then. ‘Home keeping youths have ever homely wits.’”

“But don’t you know what another poet says?