‘My dear Van,’ replied Andrew, ’stop with Louisa?  Now, in confidence, it’s as bad as a couple of wives; no disrespect to my excellent good Harry at home; but Louisa—­I don’t know how it is—­but Louisa, you lose your head, you’re in a whirl, you’re an automaton, a teetotum!  I haven’t a notion of what I’ve been doing or saying since I came here.  My belief is, I ’ve been lying right and left.  I shall be found out to a certainty:  Oh! if she’s made her mind up for the pic-nic, somebody must stop.  I can only tell you, Van, it’s one perpetual vapour-bath to me.  There ’ll be room for two in my trousers when I get back.  I shall have to get the tailor to take them in a full half.’

Here occurred an opening for one of those acrid pleasantries which console us when there is horrid warfare within.

‘You must give me the work,’ said Evan, partly pleased with his hated self for being able to jest on the subject, as a piece of preliminary self-conquest.

‘Aha!’ went Andrew, as if the joke were too good to be dwelt on; ‘Hem’; and by way of diverting from it cleverly and naturally, he remarked that the weather was fine.  This made Evan allude to his letter written from Lymport, upon which Andrew said:  ’tush! pish! humbug! nonsense! won’t hear a word.  Don’t know anything about it.  Van, you’re going to be a brewer.  I say you are.  You’re afraid you can’t?  I tell you, sir, I’ve got a bet on it.  You’re not going to make me lose, are you—­eh?  I have, and a stiff bet, too.  You must and shall, so there’s an end.  Only we can’t make arrangements just yet, my boy.  Old Tom—­very good old fellow—­but, you know—­must get old Tom out of the way, first.  Now go and dress for dinner.  And Lord preserve us from the Great Mel to-day!’ Andrew mumbled as he turned away.

Evan could not reach his chamber without being waylaid by the Countess.  Had he remembered the sister who sacrificed so much for him?  ’There, there!’ cried Evan, and her hand closed on the delicious golden whispers of bank-notes.  And, ‘Oh, generous Andrew! dear good Evan!’ were the exclamations of the gratified lady.

There remained nearly another hundred.  Evan laid out the notes, and eyed them while dressing.  They seemed to say to him, ‘We have you now.’  He was clutched by a beneficent or a most malignant magician.  The former seemed due to him, considering the cloud on his fortunes.  This enigma might mean, that by submitting to a temporary humiliation, for a trial of him—­in fact, by his acknowledgement of the fact, loathed though it was,—­he won a secret overlooker’s esteem, gained a powerful ally.  Here was the proof, he held the proof.  He had read Arabian Tales and could believe in marvels; especially could he believe in the friendliness of a magical thing that astounded without hurting him.