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with her?
    If anything would turn her from the idea of marriage it would be that, I should imagine.'At this William Filmore turned from
    98where he had been standing near the library table and walked to the end of the room and stood looking out into the deepening twilight of the wet April day. The library was situated at the end of the house and its windows faced across a wide yard to a row of large stone buildings; and looking towards them, he asked, 'Is Doug ready?''I don't know. He's likely still over there chipping away. He enjoys being a tradesman,' Lionel answered, to be surprised by his father's response when he swung round from the window and hissed, 'It would be something to your credit if you went and joined him in being a tradesman. At least he's keeping himself and handing a bit into the house at the same time. And it's an art he's following, not bloody blacking and candles. And that's something you want to do as soon as possible, get rid of that blacking factory and the candles and put it into more property where it's already sprinkled along by the river, so I understand.''You don't need to tell me, Father, what I'm going to do; I'm no blasted fool.'William Filmore now walked slowly back down the room, saying, 'No; you're no 99blasted fool, not in some ways; but in others you're an idiot. Tell me, do you like the girl? I mean, not just like her, want her? Are you for her?'Lionel did not immediately answer; he ran his hand back over his well pomaded hair, then he said, 'She's very likeable . . . and desirable.'And it was also some seconds before his father, who was staring hard at him now, said, 'Liking and desirable isn't going to be enough.
    There's going to be no more of that Lizzie Porter business, I hope. Have you made it plain with her?' for himself now to be surprised by Lionel's answer, who, being further piqued, leaned on the library table and with doubled fist beat out each word: 'Yes! Yes! Yes! I've told you before.'His father's tone was comparatively calm is he replied, 'Well, it's nice to be reassured.What time is it?' He turned and looked towards the mantelpiece on which stood an orlate French gilt clock presided over, as it were, by the posed lady on its head, and he remarked, 'In an hour's time Alan and Minie and their five daughters will, as usual, be the first to arrive. He gave a dry laugh now
    100as he said, There's a bevy for you, a nestful of pure chicks and not a cock in sight." But Lionel was already going out of the door and so he called after him, 'See that Doug's ready,' after which he lowered himself into the chair, pulled out a large red silk handkerchief from the side pocket of his heavily embroidered jacket and mopped his perspiring face and so somewhat smothered the words, which were,
    'God in heaven! There'll be some skitting this night. We've reached the depths when the house has got to be saved by a blacking factory. Of all the trades in the world, and most of them can be found in this area, she has to have a blacking factory. Not a brush or comb-maker, or a dyer's, or a cutler's, or a tanner's, or a chain maker's, or a calico printer's, and nothing so lady-like as lace-making, but it has to be a bloody blacking factory. And every one of his friends at the ball here tonight and supposedly celebrating the coming event in a fortnight's time will be smirking, the women behind their fans, the men as they toast the happy couple repeatedly with champagne, or port, or whisky, or rum, or highly laced punch, or sherry. Oh yes, there'll be such a101choice, but by two o'clock tomorrow morning there'll be no difference to their bloody fuddled minds; nor to my own . . . nor to my own.' Among the close friends at the ball were Pat Maybrook, his wife Ann, and their three sons, David, Norman, and Albert, each of these being accompanied by a young lady, David by his fiancee. The Maybrooks' business was the lucrative one of brewers.Then there was Arthur Porter, his wife Kitty, his son Peter and the