juryman upon his oath, whether he is convinced that the most noble
Marquis was raging because he was losing a woman, or from the discovery
that he was one of two dupes facing each other, and that he was the fool
who had paid for both and had had "no run for his money!" Marquises of
Steyne do not resent sentimental losses--they can be hurt only in their
sportsmanship.

You may begin with the Misses Pinkerton (in whose select school Becky
absorbed the intricate hypocrisies and saturated snobbery of the highest
English society) and follow her through all the little and big turmoils
of her life, meeting on the way of it all the elaborated differentials
of the country-gentleman and lady tribe of Crawley, the line officers
and bemedalled generals of the army (except honest O'Dowd and his lady),
the most noble Marquis and his shadowy and resigned Marchioness, the
R--y--l P--rs--n--ge himself--even down to the tuft-hunters Punter and
Loder--and if Becky is not superior to every man and woman of them in
every personal trait and grace that calls for admiration--then, why, by
George! do you take such an interest, such an undying interest, in her?
You invariably take the greatest interest in the best character in a
story--unless it's too good and gets "sweety" and "sticky" and so sours
on your philosophical stomach. You can't possibly take any interest in
Dobbin--you just naturally, emphatically, and in the most unreflecting
way in the world, say "Oh, d--n Dobbin!" and go right ahead after
somebody else. I don't say Becky was all that a perfect Sunday School
teacher should have been, but in the group in which she was born to move
she smells cleaner than the whole raft of them--to me.

* * * * *

Thackeray was, next to Shakespeare, the writer most wonderfully combined