There never was woman yet who had not some outlet for disinterested affection. Mrs. Clarke was as worldly in a small way as a country lady could be, and possessed as much selfishness as ever moral essay ascribed to a fashionable one; and yet her desire for her brother's success was as entirely dictated by sincere and uncalculating attachment to him as ever was that of heroine of romance who prays for her lover's happiness with her rival.
Mr. Boyne Sillery did not interrupt her: a plan, in which, as Byron says,
"The images of things
Were dimly struggling into light,"
now floated before him, but in which it was something too premature to expect her co-operation—indeed, her absolute opinion was to be feared.
The next day a severe cold confined her to the house, with which piece of information he was duly despatched to the Hall: apparently, he found his visit pleasant, for he only reappeared at dinner-time, and then not till the Doctor had finished his first slice of mutton. The Doctor never waited—the warmth of a joint, like the warmth of a poet's first idea,
