'How do you think Harriet's looking?' asked Mr. Andrew. And, not waiting
for an answer, whispered,

'Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?'

Evan's brow was dark, as he replied: 'They are not decided.'

'Won't Harriet go?'

'She is not going--she thinks not.'

'And the Countess--Louisa's upstairs, eh?--will she go?'

'She cannot leave the Count--she thinks not.'

'Won't Caroline go? Caroline can go. She--he--I mean--Caroline can go?'

'The Major objects. She wishes to.'

Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, 'the Major!'--a compromise
for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in
an explosion against appearances.

'I'm a brewer, Van. Do you think I'm ashamed of it? Not while I brew
good beer, my boy!--not while I brew good beer! They don't think worse
of me in the House for it. It isn't ungentlemanly to brew good beer,
Van. But what's the use of talking?'

Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, 'Poor girl! poor girl!'