Sandys, the one, perhaps, who put on the velvet jacket in the morning.  But it might be number two who took that jacket off at night.  He was a good-natured cynic, vastly amused by the airs this little girl put on before a man of note, and he took a malicious pleasure in letting her see that they entertained him.  He goaded her intentionally into expressions of temper, because she looked prettiest then, and trifled with her hair (but this was in imagination only), and called her a quaint child (but this was beneath his breath).  The third—­he might be the one who wore the jacket—­was a haughty boy who was not only done with her for ever, but meant to let her see it. (His soul cried, Oh, oh, for a conservatory and some of society’s darlings, and Grizel at the window to watch how he got on with them!) And now that I think of it, there was also a fourth:  Sandys, the grave author, whose life (in two vols. 8vo.) I ought at this moment to be writing, without a word about the other Tommies.  They amused him a good deal.  When they were doing something big he would suddenly appear and take a note of it.

The boy, who was stiffly polite to her (when Tommy was angry he became very polite), told her that he had been invited to the Spittal, the seat of the Rintoul family, and that he understood there were some charming girls there.

“I hope you will like them,” Grizel said pleasantly.

“If you could see how they will like me!” he wanted to reply; but of course he could not, and unfortunately there was no one by to say it for him.  Tommy often felt this want of a secretary.

The abject one found a glove of Grizel’s, that she did not know she had lost, and put it in his pocket.  There it lay, unknown to her.  He knew that he must not even ask them to bury it with him in his grave.  This was a little thing to ask, but too much for him.  He saw his effects being examined after all that was mortal of T. Sandys had been consigned to earth, and this pathetic little glove coming to light.  Ah, then, then Grizel would know!  By the way, what would she have known?  I am sure I cannot tell you.  Nor could Tommy, forced to face the question in this vulgar way, have told you.  Yet, whatever it was, it gave him some moist moments.  If Grizel saw him in this mood, her reproachful look implied that he was sentimentalizing again.  How little this chit understood him!

The man of the world sometimes came upon the glove in his pocket, and laughed at it, as such men do when they recall their callow youth.  He took walks with Grizel without her knowing that she accompanied him; or rather, he let her come, she was so eager.  In his imagination (for bright were the dreams of Thomas!) he saw her looking longingly after him, just as the dog looks; and then, not being really a cruel man, he would call over his shoulder, “Put on your hat, little woman; you can come.”  Then he conceived her wandering with him through the Den and Caddam Wood, clinging to his arm and looking