He was going to make his fortune; he was going to embark the money in the Bog of Allen--I don't know what.

The fact is, he was going to pay his losses upon the last Manchester steeple-chase, and I leave you to imagine how much principal or interest poor Polly ever saw back again.
'It was more than half her fortune, and he has had another thousand since from her.

Then came efforts to stave off ruin and prevent exposure; struggles on all our parts, and sacrifices, that' (here Mr.
Essex Temple began to hesitate)--'that needn't be talked of; but they are of no more use than such sacrifices ever are.

Pump and his wife are abroad--I don't like to ask where; Polly has the three children, and Mr.
Serjeant Shirker has formally written to break off an engagement, on the conclusion of which Miss Temple must herself have speculated, when she alienated the greater part of her fortune.
'And here's your famous theory of poor marriages!' Essex Temple cries, concluding the above history.

'How do you know that I don't want to marry myself?
How do you dare sneer at my poor sister?
What are we but martyrs of the reckless marriage system which Mr.Snob, forsooth, chooses to advocate ?' And he thought he had the better of the argument, which, strange to say, is not my opinion.
But for the infernal Snob-worship, might not every one of these people be happy?
If poor Polly's happiness lay in linking her tender arms round such a heartless prig as the sneak who has deceived her, she might have been happy now--as happy as Raymond Raymond in the ballad, with the stone statue by his side.