It has been hinted before of a strange effect upon the minds of men who knew what they were going to, when they received an invitation to dine with Tinman.  For the sake of a little social meeting at any cost, they accepted it; accepted it with a sigh, midway as by engineering measurement between prospective and retrospective; as nearly mechanical as things human may be, like the Mussulman’s accustomed cry of Kismet.  Has it not been related of the little Jew babe sucking at its mother’s breast in Jerusalem, that this innocent, long after the Captivity, would start convulsively, relinquishing its feast, and indulging in the purest.  Hebrew lamentation of the most tenacious of races, at the passing sound of a Babylonian or a Ninevite voice?  In some such manner did men, unable to refuse, deep in what remained to them of nature, listen to Tinman; and so did Van Diemen, sighing heavily under the operation of simple animal instinct.

“You seem miserable,” said Tinman, not oblivious of his design to give his friend a fright.

“Do I?  No, I’m all right,” Van Diemen replied.  “I’m thinking of alterations at the Hall before Summer, to accommodate guests—­if I stay here.”

“I suppose you would not like to be separated from Annette.”

“Separated?  No, I should think I shouldn’t.  Who’d do it?”

“Because I should not like to leave my good sister Martha all to herself in a house so near the sea—­”

“Why not go to the Crouch, man?”

“Thank you.”

“No thanks needed if you don’t take advantage of the offer.”

They were at the entrance to Elba, whither Mr. Tinman was betaking himself to see his intended.  He asked if Annette was at home, and to his great stupefaction heard that she had gone to London for a week.

Dissembling the spite aroused within him, he postponed his very strongly fortified design, and said, “You must be lonely.”

Van Diemen informed him that it would be for a night only, as young Fellingham was coming down to keep him company.

“At six o’clock this evening, then,” said Tinman.  “We’re not fashionable in Winter.”

“Hang me, if I know when ever we were!” Van Diemen rejoined.

“Come, though, you’d like to be.  You’ve got your ambition, Philip, like other men.”

“Respectable and respected—­that ’s my ambition, Mr. Mart.”

Tinman simpered:  “With your wealth!”

“Ay, I ’m rich—­for a contented mind.”

“I ’m pretty sure you ’ll approve my new vintage,” said Tinman.  “It’s direct from Oporto, my wine-merchant tells me, on his word.”

“What’s the price?”

“No, no, no.  Try it first.  It’s rather a stiff price.”

Van Diemen was partially reassured by the announcement.  “What do you call a stiff price?”

“Well!—­over thirty.”

“Double that, and you may have a chance.”

“Now,” cried Tinman, exasperated, “how can a man from Australia know anything about prices for port?  You can’t divest your ideas of diggers’ prices.  You’re like an intoxicating drink yourself on the tradesmen of our town.  You think it fine—­ha! ha!  I daresay, Philip, I should be doing the same if I were up to your mark at my banker’s.  We can’t all of us be lords, nor baronets.”