“George, she’s dying,” William Dobbin said – and could speak no more.

Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, the servant-maid came into Amelia’s room.

“Miss Emmy,” said the girl.

“I’m coming,” Emmy said, not looking round.

“There’s a message,” the maid went on. “There’s something – somebody – sure, here’s a new letter for you – don’t be reading them old ones anymore.” And she gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.

“I must see you,” the letter said. “Dearest Emmy – dearest love – dearest wife, come to me.”

George and her mother were outside, waiting.

When Captain Dobbin came back in the afternoon to these people – which he did with a great deal of sympathy for them – it did his heart good to see how Amelia had grown young again – how she laughed, and chirped, and sang familiar old songs at the piano, which were only interrupted by the bell from without proclaiming Mr. Sedley’s return from the City, before whom George received a signal to retreat.

Beyond the first smile of recognition Miss Sedley did not once notice Dobbin during his visit.[16] But he was content, so that he saw her happy; and thankful to have been the means of making her so. Without knowing how, Captain William Dobbin found himself the great promoter, arranger, and manager of the match between George Osborne and Amelia. But for him it never would have taken place: he could not but confess as much to himself, and smiled rather bitterly as he thought that he of all men in the world should be the person upon whom the care of this marriage had fallen. He confirmed her father to give his consent to the marriage, he checked on Osborne and his affairs. He was content, so that he saw her happy; and thankful to have been the means of making her so.

While George Osborne’s good feelings, and his good friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to Amelia’s feet, George’s parent and sisters were arranging the splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he would resist: Miss Schwarz and her great fortune. Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, too, for his son. He should leave the army; he should go into Parliament; he should cut a figure in the fashion and in the state. This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal. He was in the very first enthusiasm and delight of his second courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly sweet to him.

Miss Schwarz did her best to appear in Russel Square. Whenever there was a chance of meeting George, that simple and good-natured young woman was quite in a hurry to see her dear Misses Osborne.

The day after George had his hint from his father, and a short time before the hour of dinner, he was in the drawing-room in a very becoming and perfectly natural attitude of melancholy. He came home to find his sisters there, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin.

The sisters began to play the piano. “Stop that thing,” George howled out in a fury from the sofa. “It makes me mad. You play us something, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something.”

“I can sing ‘Fluvy du Tajy,’” Swartz said, in a meek voice, “if I had the words.”

“O, ‘Fleuve du Tage,[17]’” Miss Maria cried; “we have the song,” and went off to fetch the book in which it was.

Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a young friend of theirs, whose name was on the title, and Miss Swartz saw “Amelia Sedley” written in the corner.

“Lord!” cried Miss Swartz, “is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at Miss P.’s at Hammersmith? I know it is. It’s her. Tell me about her – where is she?”