When a man is inclined to marry a particular woman, and has made any committal of himself, this woman’s opinions, however different from his own, are readily regarded as part of her pretty ways, especially if they are merely negative; as, for example, that she does not insist on the Trinity or on the rightfulness or expediency of church rates, but simply regards her lover’s troubling himself in disputation on these heads as stuff and nonsense.  The man feels his own superior strength, and is sure that marriage will make no difference to him on the subjects about which he is in earnest.  And to laugh at men’s affairs is a woman’s privilege, tending to enliven the domestic hearth.  If Scintilla had no liking for the best sort of nonconformity, she was without any troublesome bias towards Episcopacy, Anglicanism, and early sacraments, and was quite contented not to go to church.

As to Scintilla’s acquaintance with her lover’s tastes on these subjects, she was equally convinced on her side that a husband’s queer ways while he was a bachelor would be easily laughed out of him when he had married an adroit woman.  Mixtus, she felt, was an excellent creature, quite likable, who was getting rich; and Scintilla meant to have all the advantages of a rich man’s wife.  She was not in the least a wicked woman; she was simply a pretty animal of the ape kind, with an aptitude for certain accomplishments which education had made the most of.

But we have seen what has been the result to poor Mixtus.  He has become richer even than he dreamed of being, has a little palace in London, and entertains with splendour the half-aristocratic, professional, and artistic society which he is proud to think select.  This society regards him as a clever fellow in his particular branch, seeing that he has become a considerable capitalist, and as a man desirable to have on the list of one’s acquaintance.  But from every other point of view Mixtus finds himself personally submerged:  what he happens to think is not felt by his esteemed guests to be of any consequence, and what he used to think with the ardour of conviction he now hardly ever expresses.  He is transplanted, and the sap within him has long been diverted into other than the old lines of vigorous growth.  How could he speak to the artist Crespi or to Sir Hong Kong Bantam about the enlarged doctrine of Mr Apollos?  How could he mention to them his former efforts towards evangelising the inhabitants of the X. alleys?  And his references to his historical and geographical studies towards a survey of possible markets for English products are received with an air of ironical suspicion by many of his political friends, who take his pretension to give advice concerning the Amazon, the Euphrates, and the Niger as equivalent to the currier’s wide views on the applicability of leather.  He can only make a figure through his genial hospitality.  It is in vain that he buys the best pictures and statues of the best artists.