If Arthur Clennam had not arrived at that wise decision firmly to

restrain himself from loving Pet, he would have lived on in a state of

much perplexity, involving difficult struggles with his own heart. Not

the least of these would have been a contention, always waging within

it, between a tendency to dislike Mr Henry Gowan, if not to regard

him with positive repugnance, and a whisper that the inclination was

unworthy. A generous nature is not prone to strong aversions, and is

slow to admit them even dispassionately; but when it finds ill-will

gaining upon it, and can discern between-whiles that its origin is not

dispassionate, such a nature becomes distressed.

Therefore Mr Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam's mind, and would

have been far oftener present to it than more agreeable persons and

subjects but for the great prudence of his decision aforesaid. As it

was, Mr Gowan seemed transferred to Daniel Doyce's mind; at all events,

it so happened that it usually fell to Mr Doyce's turn, rather than

to Clennam's, to speak of him in the friendly conversations they held

together. These were of frequent occurrence now; as the two partners

shared a portion of a roomy house in one of the grave old-fashioned City

streets, lying not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall.

Mr Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused

himself. Mr Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of

Clennam's sitting-room to say Good night.

'Come in, come in!' said Clennam.

'I saw you were reading,' returned Doyce, as he entered, 'and thought

you might not care to be disturbed.'

But for the notable resolution he had made, Clennam really might not

have known what he had been reading; really might not have had his eyes

upon the book for an hour past, though it lay open before him. He shut

it up, rather quickly. 'Are they well?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Doyce; 'they are well. T

hey are all well.' Daniel had an old workmanlike habit of carrying his pocket-handkerchief

in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly

repeating, 'They are all well. Miss Minnie looking particularly well, I

thought.' 'Any company at the cottage?' 'No, no company.'

'And how did you get on, you four?' asked Clennam

gaily. 'There were five of us,' returned his partner. 'There was

What's-his-name. He was there.' 'Who is he?' said Clennam.

'Mr Henry Gowan.' 'Ah, to be sure!' cried Clennam with unusual vivacity, 'Yes!--I forgot

him.' 'As I mentioned, you may remember,' said Daniel Doyce, 'he is always

there on Sunday.' 'Yes, yes,' returned Clennam; 'I remember now.'




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