And at first it did not occur to him that this sudden and prompt vindication of herself, which set Nancy right, brought external consequences with it which might alarm any man. What could she do to make up for the loss of her living which must ensue? She would be not only an orphan and friendless--but also penniless, with nothing, and no one to keep her from want. This is a thought which might well appal a man used to all the resources of wealth, and who had no notion how poor people contrive to stumble on, and keep body and soul together upon no income at all. A shiver of pain got into Arthur’s being at thought of the sacrifices and straits she might be driven to; though that was not half so powerful at first as the relief and satisfaction of the other discovery, that she was herself still, foolish, rash, passionate, but not mercenary. It grew upon him, however, as the days went on, and no answer came to the letter he wrote instantly imploring Durant (whose time and labours seemed to his friends to belong to them) to lose no time in finding Nancy. As it happened, and as it happens so often in the emergencies of individual history, Arthur could not at that moment rush home himself, as he would have done almost at any other time, to rescue his wife from her self-imposed privations, whatever they might be. His chiefs were absent, there was a lull in diplomatic business, and it was his duty to remain at his post, to note the small gossip of the court, and chronicle all the small beer, and make into national importance the scraps of remark that fell from Count A. and Prince B.