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Database Systems: Design, Implementation, and
Management 13th

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 Table of Contents

Part I: DATABASE CONCEPTS.

1. Database Systems.

2. Data Models.

Part II: DESIGN CONCEPTS.

3. The Relational Database Model.

4. Entity Relationship (ER) Modeling.

5. Advanced Data Modeling.

6. Normalization of Database Tables.

Part III: ADVANCED DESIGN AND IMPLEMENTATION.

7. Introduction to Structured Query Language (SQL).

8. Advanced SQL.

9. Database Design.

Part IV: ADVANCED DATABASE CONCEPTS.

10. Transaction Management and Concurrency Control.

11. Database Performance Tuning and Query Optimization.

12. Distributed Database Management Systems.

13. Business Intelligence and Data Warehouses.

14. Big Data Analytics and NoSQL.

Part V: DATABASES AND THE INTERNET.

15. Database Connectivity and Web Technologies.

Part VI: DATABASE ADMINISTRATION.

16. Database Administration and Security.

ONLINE APPENDICES.

Appendix Aa: Designing Databases with Visio 2010 Professional: A Tutorial.

Appendix Ab: Designing Databases with Visio 2013 Professional: A Tutorial.

Appendix B: The University Lab: Conceptual Design.

Appendix C: The University Lab: Conceptual Design Verification, Logical Design,

and Implementation.

Appendix D: Converting the ER Model into a Database Structure.

Appendix E: Comparison of ER Model Notations.

Appendix F: Client/Server Systems.

Appendix G: Object-Oriented Databases.

Appendix H: Unified Modeling Language (UML).

Appendix I: Databases in Electronic Commerce.

Appendix J: Web Database Development with ColdFusion.

Appendix K: The Hierarchical Database Model.

Appendix L: The Network Database Model.

Appendix M: Microsoft Access Tutorial.

Appendix N: Creating a New Database Using Oracle 12c.

Appendix O: Data Warehouse Implementation Factors.

Appendix P: Working with MongoDB.

Appendix Q: Working with Neo4j.

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 CHAPTER XVI.

RED HERRINGS.

Dealers in marine stores generally select quiet by-ways, back-

waters of traffic, for the scene of their trade. In the open high roads
of business the current is too quick for them. They buy and sell
substantial and weighty articles; their transactions are few and far
between. Those who come to sell may be in haste; those who come
to buy, never. No one ever yet rushed into a marine-store dealer's,
and hammered with his money on a second-hand copper, in lieu of a
counter, and shouted out that he could not wait a moment for a
second-hand iron tripod. It is extremely doubtful if a marine-store
dealer ever sells anything. Occasionally buying of ungainly, heavy,
amorphous, valueless-looking bundles goes on, but a sale hardly
ever. Who, for instance, could want an object visible in the business
establishment of John Timmons, Tunbridge Street, London Road?
The most important-looking article was a donkey-engine without a
funnel, or any of its taps, and with a large rusty hole bulged in its
knobby boiler. Then there lay a little distance from the engine the
broken beam of a large pair of scales and the huge iron scoop of
another pair. After this, looking along the left-hand side out of the
gloom towards the door, lay three cannon-shot, for guns of different
calibres; then the funnel of a locomotive, flat, and making a very
respectable pretence of having been the barrel from which the
cannon-shot had dribbled, instead of flown, because of the barrel's
senile decay. After the funnel came a broken anvil, around the
blockless and deposed body of which gathered--no doubt for the
sake of old lang syne--two sledge-hammer heads, without handles,
and the nozzle of a prodigious forge-bellows. Next appeared a heap
of chunks of leaden pipe. Next, a patch of mutilated cylindrical half-
hundred weights, like iron mushrooms growing up out of the
ferruginous floor. The axle-tree and boxes of a cart stood against the
wall, like the gingham umbrella of an antediluvian giant, and keeping
them company the pillars and trough of a shower-bath, plainly the
stand into which the umbrella ought to have been placed, if the
dead Titan had had any notion of tidiness. Then appeared the
cistern of the shower-bath, like the Roundhead iron cap of the
cyclopean owner of the umbrella. Then spread what one might fancy
to be the mouth of a mine of coffee mills, followed by a huge chaotic
pile of rusty and broken guns and swords, and blunderbusses and
pistols. Beyond this chaotic patch, a ton of nuts and screws and
bolts; and, later, a bank of washers, a wire screen, five dejected
chimney-jacks, the stock of an anchor, broken from the flukes,
several hundred fathoms of short chains of assorted lengths, half a
bundle of nailrod iron, three glassless ship's lamps, a pile of brazen
miscellanies, a pile of iron miscellanies, a pile of copper miscellanies,
and then the doorless opening into Tunbridge Street, and standing
on the iron-grooved threshold, into which the shutters fitted at night,
Mr. John Timmons in person, the owner of this flourishing
establishment.

Mr. John Timmons was a tall and very thin man, of fifty years, or
thereabouts. His face was dust-colour, with high, well-padded cheek
bones, blue eyes and insignificant cocked nose. His hair was dark
brown, touched here and there with grey, curly, short, thin. He wore
a low-crowned brown felt hat and a suit of dark chocolate tweed,
the trousers being half a span too short over his large shoes, and
the waistcoat half a span too wide, half a span too long, and
buttoned up to the deep-sunken hollow of his scraggy throat. His
neck was extremely long and thin and wrinkled, and covered with
sparse greyish hair. His ears were enormous, and stood out from his
ill-shapen head like fins. They were iron-grey, the colour of the
under surface of a bat's wing. The forehead was low, retreating, and
creased with close parallel lines. The eyes were keen, furtive,
suspicious. A hand's-breath below the sharp, large apple of his
throat, and hanging loose upon the waistcoat, was the knot of a
washed-out blue cotton neckerchief. He wore long mutton-chop
whiskers. The rest of the face was covered with a short, grizzled
stubble. When he was not using his hands, he carried them thrust
down to the utmost in his trousers' pockets, showing a wide strip of
red sinewy arm between the sleeve of his coat and the pocket of the
trousers. No shirt was visible, and the neckerchief touched the long,
lank neck, there being no collar or trace of linen. Excepting the blue
patch of neckerchief on his chest, and his blue eyes, no positive
colour appeared anywhere about the man. No part of the man
himself or of his clothes was clean.

Mr. Timmons was taking the air on his own threshold late in the
afternoon of that last Thursday in June. It was now some hours
since the dwarf had called and had held that conversation with him
in the cellar. Not a human being had entered the marine store since.
Mr. Timmons was gazing out of his watchet blue eyes in a stony and
abstracted way at the dead brick wall opposite. He had been
standing in this position for a good while, now shifting the weight of
his body to one foot, now to the other. Occasionally he cleared his
throat, which, being a supererogation, showed that he was in deep
thought, for no man, in his waking moments, could think of clearing
so long a throat without ample reason. The sound he made was so
deep and sepulchral it seemed as though he had left his voice
behind him in the cellar, and it was becoming impatient there.

Although it had not yet struck six o'clock, he was thinking of

closing his establishment. At this time of the day very few people
passed through Tunbridge Street; often a quarter of an hour went by
bringing no visitor. But after six the street became busier, for with
the end of the working day came more carts and vans and barrows
to rest for the night with their shafts thrust up in the air, after their
particular manner of sleeping. This parking of the peaceful artillery
of the streets Mr. Timmons looked on with dislike, for it brought
many people about the place and no grist to his mill. He shared with
poets and aristocrats the desire for repose and privacy.

As he was about to retire for the long shutters that by night

defended and veiled his treasure from predatory hands or prying
eyes, his enormous left ear became aware that feet were
approaching from the end of the street touching London Road. He
turned his pale blue eyes in the direction of the sound and saw
coming along close to the wall the figure of a low sized stout
woman, wearing a black bonnet far off her forehead. She was
apparently about his own age, but except in the matter of age there
was no likeness in the appearance of the two. She was dressed in
shabby black stuff which had long ago forgotten to what kind of
material it belonged. Her appearance was what merciful newspaper
reporters describe as "decent," that is, she was not old or in tatters,
or young and attractive and gaudy in apparel; her clothes were black
and whole, and she was sober. She looked like an humble monthly
nurse or an ideal charwoman. She carried a fish-basket in her hand.
Out of this basket projected the tails of half-a-dozen red herrings.
She had, apparently, once been good-looking, and was now well-
favoured. She had that smooth, cheesy, oily, colourless rounded face
peculiar to well-fed women of the humbler class indigenous in
London.

Mr. Timmons' forehead wrinkled upwards as he recognised the

visitor to Tunbridge Street. He smiled, displaying an imperfect line of
long discoloured teeth.

"Good afternoon," said John Timmons in a deep vibrating voice

that sounded as though it had effected its escape from the cellar
through a drum.

"Afternoon," said the woman entering the store without pausing.

Then nodding her head back in the direction whence she had come
she asked: "Anyone?"
 "No," answered Timmons, after a long and careful scrutiny of the
eastern half of Tunbridge Street. "Not a soul."

"I thought I'd never get here. It's mortal hot. Are you sure there
is no one after me?" said the woman, sitting down on a broken fire-
grate, in the rear of the pile of shutters standing up against the wall
on the left. She began rubbing her perspiring glistening face with a
handkerchief of a dun colour rolled up in a damp ball. Still she held
her fish-bag in her hand.

"Certain. Which shows what bad taste the men have. Now, only
for Tom I know you'd have one follower you could never shake off,"
said Timmons, with a gallant laugh that sounded alarmingly deeper
than his speaking voice. Timmons was at his ease and leisure, and
he made it a point to be always polite to ladies.

"Tom's at home," said the woman, thrusting the handkerchief into

her pocket and smiling briefly and mechanically in acknowledgment
of the man's compliment to her charms. "I've brought you some fish
for your tea."

"Herrings," he said, bending to examine the protruding tails.

"Fresh herrings, or red?" he asked in a hushed significant voice. He
did not follow the woman into the store, but still stood at the
threshold, so that he could see up and down the street.

"Red," she whispered hoarsely, "and as fine as ever you saw. I

thought you might like them for your tea."

By this time a man with a cart turned into the street, and, it just
then striking six, the door of a factory poured out a living turbid
stream of bedraggled, frowsy girls, some of whom went up and
some down the street, noisily talking and laughing.

"Yes, There is nothing I am so fond of for my tea as red herrings,"

he said, with his face half turned to the store, half to the street.
"And I shall like them particularly to-night."
 "Eh! Particularly to-night? Are you alone? Are you going to have
company at tea, Mr. Timmons?" asked the woman in a tone and
manner of newly-awakened interest. She now held her fish basket
with both hands in front of her fat body and resting on her shallow
lap.

Timmons was standing half-a-dozen yards from her on the

threshold. She could hear his voice quite plainly, notwithstanding the
noise in the street and the fact that he spoke in a muffled tone.
While he answered he kept his mouth partly open, and, because of
so doing, spoke with some indistinctness. It was apparent he did not
want people within sight or hearing to know he was speaking. "No; I
am not expecting anyone to tea, and there is no one here. I am
going to have my tea all by myself. I am very busy just now. I have
had a visitor to-day--a few hours ago----"

"Well," whispered the woman eagerly.

"And I have the kettle on the boil, and I am going to put those
red herrings in it for my tea." He was looking with vacant blue eyes
down the street as he spoke. He did not lay stress upon the words,
"I have the kettle on the boil." He uttered them in a lower tone and
more slowly than any others. The emphasis thus given them was
very great. It seemed to startle the woman. She rose partly as if to
go to him. She was fluttered and agreeably fluttered.

"Stay where you are," he said. He seemed to know she had

attempted to rise without turning his eyes upon her. She was half
hidden in the gloom of the store. No casual observer passing by
would have noticed her. She was simply a black shapeless mass on
the old fire-grate against a dingy dark wall in a half light. She might
easily be taken for some of Timmons's stock.

"And," she said, "he'll do it!"

"He will. He's been to Birmingham and has arranged all. They'll
take every bit they can get and pay a good price--twice as much as
could be got otherwise--from anyone else."

"Fine! Tine! You know, Mr. Timmons, how hard it is to find a bit
now, and to get so little for it as we have been handling is very bad--
heartbreaking. It takes all the spirit out of Tom."

"Where did you buy the six herrings?"

"Well," said the woman, with a smile, "I didn't exactly buy them
herrings, though they are as good ones as ever you saw. You see,
my little boys went to the meeting about the votes, or the Niggers,
or the Gospel, or something or other, and they found the herrings
growing on the trees there, ha-ha-ha."

"I know. It was a meeting for trying to get some notion of

Christianity into the heads of the African Blacks. I read about it in
the newspaper this morning. The missionaries and ourselves are
much beholden to the Blacks."

"It was something now I remember about the Blacks. Anyway,

they're six beauties. And can you let me have a little money, Mr.
Timmons, for I must hurry back to Tom with the good news."

"How is Tom? Is he on the drink?"

"No, he isn't."

"That's a bad sign. What's the matter?"

"I don't know, if it isn't going to them Christian meetings about

the Blacks. It's my belief that he'll turn Christian in the end, and you
know, Mr. Timmons, that won't pay him."

"Not at Tom's time of life. You must begin that kind of thing
young. There are lots of converted--well sinners, but they don't
often make bishops of even the best of them."
 "Well, am I to go? What are you going to give me, Mr. Timmons?
When Tom isn't in a reasonable state of drink there's no standing
him. Make it as much as you can. Say a fiver for luck on the new-
found-out."

"I'll give you an order on the Bank of England for a million if you
like, but I can't give you more than ten thousand pounds in
sovereigns, or even half sovereigns, just at this moment, even for
the good of the unfortunate heathen Blacks. But here, anyway, take
this just to keep you going. I haven't landed any fish myself yet."

The woman rose and he handed to her money. Then followed a

long, good-humoured dialogue in which she begged for more, and
he firmly, but playfully, refused her. Then she went away, and Mr.
John Timmons was left once more alone.

He had taken the fish basket from the woman when giving her
the money, and now carried it to the back of the store and
descended with, it to the cellar. He did not remain long below, but
soon came trotting up the ladder, humming a dull air in a deep
growl. Then he set himself briskly to work putting up the shutters,
taking them out of the pile in front of the old fire-grate on which the
woman had sat, carrying each one separately to the front and
running it home through the slot. When all were up, he opened the
lower part of one, which hung on hinges serving as a wicket, and
stepped out into the street full from end to end of the bright, warm
evening sunlight.

He rubbed his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and took a
leisurely survey of the street. The noisy girls from the factory had all
disappeared, and the silence of evening was falling upon the place.
A few men busied themselves among the carts and vans and a dull
muffled sound told of the traffic in London Road. The hum of
machinery had ceased, and, contrasted with the noise of an hour
ago, the place was soundless.
 John Timmons seemed satisfied with his inspection. He closed the
wicket and retired into the deep gloom of the store. The only light
now in this place entered through holes up high in two shutters. The
holes were no more than a foot square, and were protected by
perforated iron plates. They were intended for ventilating not
lighting the store.

Even in the thick dark air John Timmons was quite independent of
light. He could have found any article in his stock blindfold. He was
no sun-worshipper, nor did he pay divine honours to the moon. A
good thick blinding London fog was his notion of reasonable
weather. One could then do one's business, whatever it might be,
without fear of bright and curious eyes.

He had told his late visitor that he had the kettle on the fire. She
had brought him half-a dozen red herrings and left them with him in
a fish-basket. Now red herrings, differing in this respect from other
kinds of fish, are seldom or never cooked in a kettle, and although
the front of the door was closed and the only visible source of heat
the two ventilators high up in the shutters, the air of the store was
growing already warmer and drier, and although there was no smell
of cooking there was an unmistakable smell of fire.

The owner did not seem in any great hurry to cook and taste his
savoury victuals. He might have meant that the kettle was for tea
merely, and had nothing to do directly with the red herrings. He
fastened the wicket-door very carefully, and then slowly examined
the rear of the shutters one by one, and, holding his eye close to
them here and there, tried if he could spy out, in order to ascertain
if any one could spy in. Then he rested his shoulder against the
middle shutter, leant his head against the panel and, having thrust
his hands deeper than ever into his trousers' pockets, gave up his
soul to listening.

In the meantime the fish basket, with the tails of the six red
herrings sticking out, was lying on the top of the old fire-grate which
had served his visitor as a seat. It had been placed here by Timmons
when he took it from the woman.

A quarter of an hour the man remained thus without moving.

Apparently he was satisfied at last. He stood upright upon his feet,
shook himself, gazed confidently round the store and then walked to
the old fire-grate. He was going to get his tea at last.

He took up the basket, drew out the wooden skewer by which it

was closed, caught the herrings in a bundle and threw them behind
him on the gritty earthen floor.

He opened the bag wide and peered into it. Holding it in his left
hand upon his upraised thigh he thrust his right hand into it and
fumbled about, bending his head down to look the better.

He was on the point of drawing something out when he suddenly

paused and listened motionless.

There was the sound of approaching steps. Timmons stood as still

as death.

Three soft knocks sounded upon the wicket and then, after an
interval of a few seconds, two more knocks still softer.

"It's Stamer himself," cried Timmons, with an imprecation, in a

muffled voice. Then he added: "What does he want? More money?
Anyway, I suppose I must let him in."

He turned round, caught up the scattered red herrings, thrust

them into the bag, fixed it with the skewer, and then threw it
carelessly on the hob of the old grate. Then he went to the wicket,
opened it without speaking, and admitted his second visitor of that
evening.

When the new comer was inside the door and the bolt drawn
once more, Timmons said, in a slow angry tone, "Well, Stamer, what
do you want? Is a bargain a bargain? You were not to come here in
daylight, and only in the dark when something of great consequence
brought you. I gave your wife all I will give just now, if we are to go
on working on the co-operative principle. What do you want?"

The low sized, round shouldered man, dressed in fustian and

wearing two gold rings on the little finger of his left hand, said in a
whisper: "The ole 'oman gev me the coin, gov'nor. I don't want no
more till all's right. What I did come about is of consequence, is of
the greatest consequence, gov'nor." He glanced round with furtive
eyes, looking apprehensively in the dim light at everything large
enough to conceal a man.

"What is it? Out with it!" said Timmons impatiently.

"You're going to see this cove to-night?"

"Yes."

"At what o'clock?"

"That's my affair," said Timmons savagely.

"I know it is, Mr. Timmons, but still I'm a bit interested too, if I
understand right the co-operative principle."

"You! What are you interested in so long as you get the coin?"

"In you. I'm powerful interested in you."

"What do you mean?" asked Timmons, frowning.

"Tell me when you're going and I'll tell you."

"Midnight."

"Ah! It will be dark then!"

 "What news you tell us. It generally is dark at midnight."

"Are you going to take much of the stuff with you--much of the
red stuff--of the red herrings?"

Timmons drew back a pace with a start and looked at Stamer

suspiciously. "Have you come to save me the trouble? Eh? Would
you like to take it yourself? Eh? Did you come here to rob me? I
mean to share fair. Do you want to throw up the great co-operative
principle and bag all?"

Stamer's eyes winked quickly, and he answered in a tone of

sorrow and reproach: "Don't talk like that, gov'nor. You know I'm a
square un, I am. I'd die for you. Did I ever peach on you when I was
in trouble, gov'nor? It hurts my feelings for you to talk like that! I
say, don't do it, gov'nor. You know I'm square. Tell me how much
stuff are you going to take with you to-night?"

The words and manner of the man indicated extreme sincerity,

and seemed to reassure Timmons. "About two pounds," he
answered.

"Oh!" groaned Stamer, shaking his close-cropped head dismally.

"What is the matter with the man? Are you mad? You're not
drunk. Your wife tells me you're not on the drink."

"No. I'm reforming. Drink interferes dreadful with business. It

spoils a man's nerve too. Two pounds is an awful lot."

"What are you driving at, Stamer? You say you're a square man.
Well, as far as I have had to do with you I have found you a square
man----"

"And honest?" said Stamer pathetically.

"With me. Yes."

 "No man is honest in the way of business."

"Well, well! What is the matter?" said Timmons impatiently; "I've

got the kettle on and must run down. I haven't put in those herrings
your old woman brought yet."

"I know. I'm sorry, gov'nor, for bothering you. I'd give my life for
you. Look here, gov'nor, suppose he is not an honest man, like me.
He isn't in our co-operative plan, you know. Suppose he isn't
particular about how he gets hold of a bit of stuff?"

"And tried to rob me?"

"That's not what I'd mind." He put his hand to the back of his
waistband. "You know what I carry here. Suppose he carries one
too?"

"You mean that he may murder me first and rob me after?"

Stamer nodded.

"Well, I'm very much obliged to you, Stamer, indeed I am; but I'm
not a bit afraid, not a bit. Why, he's not much over four feet, and
he's a hunchback as well."

"But hunchbacks can buy tools like this, and a man's inches don't
matter then," moving his hand under his coat.

"I'm not a bit afraid. Not a bit. If that's what you came about it's
all right, and now I must go down. The fire is low by this time, and I
may as well run these out of likeness at once."

He opened the door for Stamer, who, with a doubtful shake of the
head, stepped over the raised threshold and went out. As Stamer
sauntered down Tunbridge Street he muttered to himself, "I'll keep
my eye on this affair anyway."
 When the wicket-door was closed Timmons took up the fish-
basket, flung away the red herrings a second time, and descended
to the cellar.
 CHAPTER XVII.

DINNER AT CURZON STREET.

When Oscar Leigh left Mrs. Ashton's drawing-room abruptly that

afternoon, Hanbury was too much annoyed and perplexed to trust
himself to speak to Dora. It was getting late. He had promised to
dine in Curzon Street that evening, and would have ample
opportunity after dinner of saying to Dora anything he liked.
Therefore he made an excuse and a hasty exit as if to overtake
Leigh. He had had however enough of the clockmaker for that day,
for all his life; so when he found himself on the landing and stairs
and in the hall he walked slowly, allowing time for Leigh to get out of
sight before emerging from the house.

He took his way south and crossed Piccadilly at Hyde Park Corner.
He had to get to his mother's house in Chester Square, to dress for
dinner, and there was not much time to lose. His mother did not
expect him to dine at home that day. She knew he had promised to
go to Curzon Street, and was not in the house when he arrived.

He went straight to his own room in no very amiable humour. He

was not at all pleased with the day. He did not think Dora had acted
with prudence in persisting on going slumming in Chelsea, he was
quite certain she had not done prudently in giving Leigh their
names. He considered Leigh had behaved--well, not much better
than a man of his class might be expected to behave, and, worst of
all and hardest of all to bear, he did not consider his own conduct
had been anything like what it ought.

If he made up his mind to go in for a popular platform, he must

overcome, beat down this squeamishness which caused him to give
way at unpleasant sights. Whether he did or did not adopt the
popular platform he ought to do this. It was grotesque that his
effectiveness in an emergency should be at the mercy of a failing
which most school-girls would laugh at! It was too bad that Dora
should be able to help where he became a mere encumbrance. Poor
girl----but there, he must not allow himself to run off on a
sentimental lead just now. He must keep his mind firm, for he must
be firm with Dora this evening.

What a wonderful likeness there was between that strange girl

and Dora. Yes, Miss Grace was, if possible, lovelier in face than Dora.
More quiet and still mannered. She absolutely looked more of an
aristocrat than Dora. It would be curious to see if her mind was like
Dora's too; if, for example, she had active, vivid, democratic
sympathies.

Every one who knew him told him he had a brilliant future before
him. Before he got married (about which there was no great hurry
as they were both young) it would be necessary for him to take up a
definite position in politics. He felt he had the stuff in him out of
which to make an orator, and an orator meant a statesman, and a
statesman meant power, what he pleased, a coronet later in life if he
and Dora cared for one. But he must select his career before
marriage.

It would be very interesting to see if those two girls, so

marvellously alike in appearance, were similar in aspirations. How
extraordinarily alike they were. The likeness was as that man had
said, stranger than his own fabulous miracle gold.
 Ashton and his wife got on very well together, although they did
not take the same view of public affairs. But then in this case things
were different from what they would be in his. Mrs. Ashton was an
ardent politician, her husband none at all. For a politician to enter
upon his public career with a young wife opposed to him would be
most unwise, the beginning of disagreement at home. At first, when
he met Dora, he was attracted towards her by the enthusiasm of her
spirit. He had never before met so young a woman, a mere girl, with
such settled faith. At that time he was not very sure how he himself
thought on many of the questions which divided men. She knew no
doubt or hesitancy, and she was very lovely and bright and fresh. He
had thought--What a helpmate for a busy man! And then, before he
had time to think much more, he had made up his mind he could not
get on without Dora.

There were many cases in which wives had been the best aids
and friends of illustrious politicians. It would never do for a man to
have a wife who would continually throw cold water on her
husband's public ardours; or, worse still, who would be actively
opposed to him. Such a state could not be borne.

Dora had clearer views and more resolute convictions than he.
Women always saw more quickly and sharply than men. If he threw
himself into the arms of the people she would be with him heart and
soul, and he should attain a wide popularity at all events.

How on earth did that man Leigh become acquainted with that
exquisite creature, Miss Grace? No wonder he called her miracle
gold.

Well, it was time for him to be getting back to Curzon Street.

There was to be no one at dinner but the family and himself. There
would, therefore, neither before nor after be any politics. What a
relief it was to forget the worry, and heat and dust of politics now
and then for a while, for a little while even!
 Grimsby Street was an awful place for a girl like Miss Grace to live
in. Why did she live in such horrible street? Poverty, no doubt.
Poverty. What a shame! She looked as if it would suit her better to
live in a better place. By heavens, what a lovely, exquisite girl she
was. Could that poor misshapen clockmaker be in love with her? He
in love? Monstrous!

Ten minutes past eight! Not a moment to be lost.

"Hansom! Curzon Street."

John Hanbury reached Ashton's as dinner was announced. The

host greeted him with effusion. He was always glad to have some
guest, and he particularly liked Hanbury. He was by no means hen-
pecked, but there was between him and his wife when alone the
consciousness of a truce, not the assurance of peace. Each felt the
other was armed, she with many convictions, he with only one,
namely, that all convictions were troublesome and more or less
fraudulent. They lived together in the greatest amity. They did not
agree to disagree, but they agreed not to disagree, which is a much
better thing. Ashton of course guessed there was something
between Dora and Hanbury, but he had no official cognizance of it
yet, and therefore treated Hanbury merely as a very acceptable
visitor. He liked the young man, and his position and prospects were
satisfactory.

Towards the end of dinner, he said: "They tell me, Hanbury, that
you brought a very remarkable character with you to-day, a sorcerer,
or an astrologer, or alchemist. I thought men of that class had all
turned into farriers by this time."

"I don't think Leigh has anything to do with hooves, unless

hooves of the cloven kind," said Hanbury with a laugh. "If a
ravenous appetite for bread confirms the graminivorous
characteristic of the hoof I am afraid it is all up with poor Leigh in
Mrs. Ashton's opinion."
 "I found him very interesting I am sure," said Mrs. Ashton, "and I
am only sorry I had not more opportunity of hearing about his
wonderful clock."

"Clock? Oh, he is a clockmaker, is he," said the host, "Then I did

not make such a bad shot after all. He has something to do with
metal?"

"I told you, Jerry, he makes gold, miracle gold," said Mrs. Ashton
vivaciously.

"So you did, my dear. So you did. My penetration then in taking

him for an alchemist does not seem to have been very great. I
should be a first-rate man to discover America now. But I fancy if I
had been born before Columbus I should not have taken the bread
out of his mouth."

"Mr. Leigh told us he was not sure he would go on making this

miracle gold," said Dora.

"Not go on making gold!" cried the father in astonishment, "was

there ever yet a man who of his own free will gave up making gold?
Why is he thinking of abandoning the mine, Dora?"

"There is so much difficulty and danger, he says, father."

"Difficulty and danger! Of course there is always difficulty in

making gold; but danger--what is the danger?"

"He is liable to be blown up."

"Good heavens! for making gold? Why, what are you talking of,
child? Ah! I see," with a heavy, affected sigh, "he is a bachelor. If he
were a married man he would stand in danger of being blown up for
not making gold. Well, Josephine, my dear," to his wife, "you do get
some very original people around you. I must say I should like to
see this timid alchemist."
 "If Mr. Ashton will honour his own house with his presence this
day week, he will have an excellent opportunity of meeting Mr.
Leigh," said Mrs. Ashton with a bow.

"My dearest Josephine, your friend, Mr. Ashton, will do nothing of

the kind. He will not add another to your collection of monsters."

"That's a very heartless and rude speech, father."

"And I look on it as distinctly personal," said Hanbury, "for I

attend regularly."

"I have really very little to do with the matter," said Mrs. Ashton.
"Mr. Leigh is Dora's thrall."

The girl coloured and looked reproachfully at her mother, and

uneasily at Hanbury. It would be much more pleasant if the
conversation shifted away from Leigh.

"He is going to model her for Pallas-Athena."

"Mother, the poor man did not say that."

"No; he did not say it, but he meant it, Dora."

"Oh, he is a sculptor, too!" cried Mr. Ashton with a laugh. "Is there
any end to this prodigy's perfections and accomplishments? But, I
say, Dora, seriously, I won't have any folly of that kind. I won't have
you give sittings to any one."

"Oh, father! indeed, you must not mind mother. She is joking. Mr.
Leigh never said or meant anything of the kind." She had grown red
and very uncomfortable.

Her father sat back in his chair and said in a bantering tone,
under which the note of seriousness could be heard:
 "You know I am not a bigot. But I will have no professional-
beauty nonsense, for three reasons: First, because professional
beauties are played out; they are no longer the rage--that reason
would be sufficient with average people. Second, and more
important, it isn't, and wasn't, and never can be good form to be a
professional beauty; and third," he hesitated and looked fondly at his
daughter, "and third--confound it, my girl is too good-looking to be
mentioned in the same breath as any of these popular beauties."

"Bravo, sir," said Hanbury, as he got up to open the door for Mrs.
Ashton and Dora, who had risen to leave the room.

When the two men were left alone, Mr. Ashton said:

"This Leigh is, I assume, one of the people?"

"Yes," said Hanbury, who wished Leigh and all about him at the
bottom of the Red Sea. "But, he is not, you know, one of the horny-
handed sons of toil. He is a man of some reading, and intelligence,
and education, but rather vulgar all the same."

"All right. I'm sure if he is your friend he must be an excellent

fellow, my dear Hanbury; and if you put him up for this constituency,
I'll vote for him, no matter what his principles are. That is," he
added thoughtfully, "if I have a vote. But, for the present, my dear
fellow, I'll tell you what we'll do with him--we'll let him alone--that is,
if you don't mind doing so."

"I shall do so with great pleasure. I have had quite enough of him
for to-day," said the other, greatly relieved.

"All right. Hanbury, I shall let you into a secret. I don't care for
people who aren't nice. I prefer nice people. I like people like my
wife and Dora, and your mother and yourself."

"I am sure, sir, you are very good to include me in your list."
 "And I don't care at all for people who aren't nice, you know. I
don't care at all for the poor. When they aren't objectionable they
are an awful bore. For the life of me I can't make out what
reasonable men and women see in the people. I don't object to
them. I suppose they are necessary, and have their uses and
functions, and all that; but if they have, why interfere with them?
Lots of fellows I know go in for the poor partly out of fun, and for a
change, and partly to catch votes. All right. But these fellows don't
emigrate from the West and live in the East End. If they did, they'd
go mad, my boy--they'd go mad. Anyway, I should. You know, I hate
politics, and never talk politics. If I were a very rich man, I'd buy the
whole of the Isle of Wight and banish all the poor from it, and live
there the whole of my life, and drown any of the poor that dared to
land on it. I wouldn't tell this to any soul in the world except you. I
know I can trust you to keep my secret. Mind, I don't object to my
wife and Dora doing what they like in such affairs; in fact, I rather
like it, for it keeps matters smooth for me. This is, I know, a horribly
wicked profession of faith; but I make it to you alone. I know that,
according to poetic justice, I ought to be killed on my way to the
club by a coster's run-away ass or the horse in a pauper's hearse,
but I don't think I shall oblige poetic justice by falling into or under
such a scheme--I am always very careful at crossings. If you are
very careful at crossings, I don't see how poetic justice is to get at
you. There, let us drop this ghastly subject now."

The conversation then wandered off into general ways, and lost
its particular and personal character.

Hanbury had never heard from any other man so cynical a speech
as Ashton's, and he was considerably shocked and pained by it. His
own convictions were few. He was himself in that condition of
aimless aspiring enthusiasm proper to ardent youth, when youth has
just begun to think conscientiously with a view to action. He could
see nothing very clearly, but everything he did see shone fiercely in
splendid clouds. This low view of life, this mere animal craving for
peace and comfort, for nice things and nice people, was abhorrent
to him. If in the early part of that day he had spoken slightingly of
the people, it was out of no cynical indifference, but from the pain
and worry caused to himself in his own mind by his opinions not
being ascertained and fixed.

If he hesitated to throw his fortunes into the scale with the more
advanced politicians, it was from no mean or sordid motive. He could
not decide within himself which class had the more worthy moral
sanction. If the present rate of progress was too slow, then those
who sought to retard it were villains; if too quick, those who tried to
accelerate it were fools. Whatever else he might be, he was not
corrupt.

What Mr. Ashton said had a great influence on young Hanbury. It

aroused his suspicions. Could it be that most of those who sought to
check the car of progress harboured such vile and unmanly
sentiments as his host had uttered in confidence? Could it be that
Ashton was more courageous because he had nothing tangible to
lose by candour? Could it be that if he himself espoused the side of
the slower movers, it would be assumed he harboured opinions such
as those Ashton had just uttered? The mere supposition was an
outrage. It was a suspicion under which he would not willingly
consent to rest one hour. This cold-blooded declaration of Ashton's
had done more towards the making up of his mind than all he had
heard and read since he turned his attention to public affairs.

Yes, he would decide to throw himself body and soul among the
more progressive party. He would espouse the principles of the
extreme Liberals. Then there would be no more wavering or doubt,
and no question of discord in politics would arise between Dora and
himself. They would have but the one creed in public affairs. Their
opinions would not merely resemble the principles of one another--
they would be identical.

Mr. Ashton and his guest did not remain long in the dining-room.
Hanbury was not treated with ceremony in that house, so Mr. Ashton
merely looked into the drawing-room for a few minutes, and then
went off to his club. Mrs. Ashton had letters to write, and retired
shortly after him to the study, leaving Dora alone with John Hanbury.

He thought that in order to keep a good understanding there was

nothing like establishing a clear understanding. In order to ensure
complete pleasantness in the future, all things that might lead to
unpleasantness ought to be removed from the past and present. The
best way of treating a nettle, when you have to touch it, is to seize it
boldly.

He was in love with Dora, and he was resolved to marry her. That
very evening he was going to ask her if she did not think the best
thing they could do would be to get married soon, at once. He had
made up his mind to adopt the popular platform, and then, of
course, his way would be clear. Up to this he had been regarded as
almost committed to the more cautious side, to the Conservative
party, the Democratic Conservative party. By declaring himself now
for the advanced party, he should be greeted by it as a convert, and
no doubt he could find a willing constituency at the next general
election.

That was all settled, all plain sailing. He was a young man, and in
love; but it must be observed he was not also a fool. He would show
all who knew him he was no fool. The life he now saw before him
was simple, straightforward, pleasant. Dora was beautiful, and good,
and clever, and in his part of popular politician would be an
ornament by his side, and, perhaps, a help to him in his career. She
was a dear girl, and would adorn any position to which he might
aspire, to which he might climb.

Yes, he was a young man, he was in love, but he was no fool, and
he knew that Dora would think less of him, would think nothing at all
of him, if she believed him to be a fool. Between lovers there ought
to be confidence, freedom of speech. She would esteem him all the
more for being candid and plain with her. What was this he had to
say to her? Oh, yes, he recollected----

Dora and he were sitting close to one another in the window-

place where Leigh and he had found her earlier. The long June day
had faded into luminous night; the blinds had not been lowered, or
the lamps in the room lit. The long, soft, cool, blue midsummer
twilight was still and delicious for any people, but especially for
lovers.
 CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE DARK.

"Well, Dora," he began, "this has been an exciting day."

"Yes," she said softly, and added with tender anxiety, "I hope you
have quite recovered? I hope you do not feel any bad effects of--of--
of--what happened to you, Jack?" She did not know how he would
take even this solicitous reference to his fainting.

"I feel quite well, dearest. Do not let us talk of that affair again.
That cabman brought you quite safe?"

"Oh, quite safe," she said gently. "Tell me what happened after
you left me?" It gratified her that he thought of her. She had
accused him of selfishness, now he was showing that his first
thought was of her. With the self-sacrificing spirit of her sex she was
satisfied with a little sympathy on her own account. She wanted to
give him all her sympathy now. "Of course, I know you found Mr.
Leigh. What an extraordinary man. Is he a little mad, do you think?"

"A good deal mad, I fancy, with conceit," he said impatiently.

Leigh, personally, had been a misfortune, and now the memory of
him was exasperating and a bore.

The ungentleness of the answer jarred upon the girl's heart. Leigh
had suffered such miserable wrongs at the hand of fate, that surely
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