These sentiments were not repaid either in kind or degree; indeed,

Michael was a trifle ashamed of his new client's friendship; it had

taken many invitations to get him to Winchester and Wickham Manor; but

he had gone at last, and was now returning. It has been remarked by some

judicious thinker (possibly J. F. Smith) that Providence despises to

employ no instrument, however humble; and it is now plain to the dullest

that both Mr Wickham and the Wallachian Hospodar were liquid lead and

wedges in the hand of Destiny.

Smitten with the desire to shine in Michael's eyes and show himself a

person of original humour and resources, the young gentleman (who was a

magistrate, more by token, in his native county) was no sooner alone in

the van than he fell upon the labels with all the zeal of a reformer;

and, when he rejoined the lawyer at Bishopstoke, his face was flushed

with his exertions, and his cigar, which he had suffered to go out was

almost bitten in two.

'By George, but this has been a lark!' he cried. 'I've sent the

wrong thing to everybody in England. These cousins of yours have a

packing-case as big as a house. I've muddled the whole business up to

that extent, Finsbury, that if it were to get out it's my belief we

should get lynched.'

It was useless to be serious with Mr Wickham. 'Take care,' said

Michael. 'I am getting tired of your perpetual scrapes; my reputation is

beginning to suffer.'

The Wrong Box