Mrs. Doris Foray was the eldest of the three sisters of the baronet, a florid affable woman, with fine teeth, exceedingly fine light wavy hair, a Norman nose, and a reputation for understanding men; and that, with these practical creatures, always means the art of managing them.  She had married an expectant younger son of a good family, who deceased before the fulfilment of his prospects; and, casting about in her mind the future chances of her little daughter and sole child, Clare, she marked down a probability.  The far sight, the deep determination, the resolute perseverance of her sex, where a daughter is to be provided for and a man to be overthrown, instigated her to invite herself to Raynham, where, with that daughter, she fixed herself.

The other two Feverel ladies were the wife of Colonel Wentworth and the widow of Mr. Justice Harley:  and the only thing remarkable about them was that they were mothers of sons of some distinction.

Austin Wentworth’s story was of that wretched character which to be comprehended, that justice should be dealt him, must be told out and openly; which no one dares now do.

For a fault in early youth, redeemed by him nobly, according to his light, he was condemned to undergo the world’s harsh judgment:  not for the fault—­for its atonement.

“—­Married his mother’s housemaid,” whispered Mrs. Doria, with a ghastly look, and a shudder at young men of republican sentiments, which he was reputed to entertain. “‘The compensation for Injustice,’ says the ‘Pilgrim’s Scrip,’ is, that in that dark Ordeal we gather the worthiest around us.”

And the baronet’s fair friend, Lady Blandish, and some few true men and women, held Austin Wentworth high.

He did not live with his wife; and Sir Austin, whose mind was bent on the future of our species, reproached him with being barren to posterity, while knaves were propagating.

The principal characteristic of the second nephew, Adrian Harley, was his sagacity.  He was essentially the wise youth, both in counsel and in action.

“In action,” the “Pilgrim’s Scrip” observes, “Wisdom goes by majorities.”

Adrian had an instinct for the majority, and, as the world invariably found him enlisted in its ranks, his appellation of wise youth was acquiesced in without irony.

The wise youth, then, had the world with him, but no friends.  Nor did he wish for those troublesome appendages of success.  He caused himself to be required by people who could serve him; feared by such as could injure.  Not that he went out of the way to secure his end, or risked the expense of a plot.  He did the work as easily as he ate his daily bread.  Adrian was an epicurean; one whom Epicurus would have scourged out of his garden, certainly:  an epicurean of our modern notions.  To satisfy his appetites without rashly staking his character, was the wise youth’s problem for life.  He had no intimates except Gibbon and Horace, and