I don't think Mark was very clear as to what he wanted, or, even if he
had had a cool half-hour to define his wishes, that he would seriously
have modified existing arrangements. But he had a passionate sort of
obstinacy, and his whims took a violent character when they were crossed,
and he was angry and jealous and unintelligible, reminding one of
Carlyle's description of Philip Egalite--a chaos.

Then he joined a conversation going on between Dorcas Brandon and the
vicar, his brother. He assisted at it, but took no part, and in fact was
listening to that other conversation which sounded, with its pleasant
gabble and laughter, like a little musical tinkle of bells in the
distance. His gall rose, and that distant talk rang in his ears like a
cool but intangible insult.

It was dull work. He looked at his watch--the brougham would be at the
door to take Miss Lake home in a quarter of an hour; so he glided by old
Lady Chelford, who was dozing stiffly through her spectacles on a French
novel, and through a second drawing-room, and into the hall, where he saw
Larcom's expansive white waistcoat, and disregarded his advance and
respectful inclination, and strode into the outer hall or vestibule,
where were hat-stands, walking-sticks, great coats, umbrellas, and the
exuviae of gentlemen.

Mark clapped on his hat, and rifled the pocket of his paletot of his
cigar-case and matches, and spluttered a curse or two, according to old
Nollekins' receipt for easing the mind, and on the door-steps lighted his
cheroot, and became gradually more philosophical.

In due time the brougham came round with its lamps lighted, and Mark, who