"I'm sure Alice is very much obliged," said Lady. Glencora; "but she will have the carriage."
"You are very good-natured," said Mrs. Marsham; "but gentlemen do so dislike having their horses out at night."
"No gentleman's horses will be out," said Lady Glencora, savagely; "and as for mine, it's what they are there for." It was not often that Lady Glencora made any allusion to her own property, or allowed any one near her to suppose that she remembered the fact that her husband's great wealth was, in truth, her wealth. As to many matters her mind was wrong. In some things her taste was not delicate as should be that of a woman. But, as regarded her money, no woman could have behaved with greater reticence, or a purer delicacy. But now, when she was twitted by her husband's special friend with ill-usage to her husband's horses, because she chose to send her own friend home in her own carriage, she did find it hard to bear.
"I dare say it's all right," said Mrs. Marsham.

"I'm sure Alice is very much obliged," said Lady Glencora; "but she will have the carriage."
"But gentlemen do so dislike having their horses out at night."
"No gentleman's horses will be out," said Lady Glencora, savagely; "and as for mine, it's what they are there for." It was not often that Lady Glencora made any allusion to her own property; there she behaved with great reticence and delicacy. But now, when she was twitted by her husband's friend about her husband's horses, because she chose to send her own friend home in her own carriage, she did find it hard to bear.
"I dare say it's all right," said Mrs. Marsham.


"It is all right," said Lady Glencora. "Mr. Palliser has given me my horses for my own use, to do as I like with them; and if he thinks I take them out when they ought to be left at home, he can tell me so. Nobody else has a right to do it." Lady Glencora, by this time, was almost in a passion, and showed that she was so.
"My dear Lady Glencora, you have mistaken me," said Mrs. Marsham; "I did not mean anything of that kind."
"I am so sorry," said Alice. "And it is such a pity, as I am quite used to going about in cabs."

"It is all right," said Lady Glencora. "Mr. Palliser has given me my horses for my own use, to do as I like with them; and if he thinks I take them out when I ought not, he can tell me so. Nobody else has a right to do it." Lady Glencora, by this time, was almost in a passion, and showed it.
"My dear Lady Glencora, you have mistaken me," said Mrs. Marsham. "I did not mean anything of that kind."
"I am so sorry," said Alice. "And it is such a pity, as I am quite used to going about in cabs."


"Of course you are," said Lady Glencora. "Why shouldn't you? I'd go home in a wheelbarrow if I couldn't walk, and had no other conveyance. That's not the question. Mrs. Marsham understands that."
"Upon my word, I don't understand anything," said that lady.
"I understand this," said Lady Glencora; "that in all such matters as that, I intend to follow my own pleasure. Come, Alice, let us have some coffee,"--and she rang the bell. "What a fuss we have made about a stupid old carriage!"
The gentlemen did not return to the drawing-room that evening, having, no doubt, joint work to do in arranging the great financial calculations of the nation; and, at an early hour, Alice was taken home in Lady Glencora's brougham, leaving her cousin still in the hands of Mrs. Marsham.

"Of course you are," said Lady Glencora. "Why shouldn't you? That's not the question. Mrs. Marsham understands that."
"Upon my word, I don't understand anything," said that lady.
"I understand this," said Lady Glencora; "that in all such matters as that, I intend to follow my own pleasure. Come, Alice, let us have some coffee," and she rang the bell. "What a fuss we have made about a stupid old carriage!"
So Alice was taken home, leaving her cousin still in the hands of Mrs. Marsham.


Alice was resolved that she would keep her promise to Kate, and pay her visit to Westmoreland before she started with the Pallisers. Kate had written to her three lines with her left hand, begging her to come, and those three lines had been more eloquent than anything she could have written had her right arm been uninjured. Alice had learned something of the truth as to the accident from her father; or, rather, had heard her father's surmises on the subject. She had heard, too, how her cousin George had borne himself when the will was read, and how he had afterwards disappeared, never showing himself again at the hall. After all that had passed she felt that she owed Kate some sympathy. Sympathy may, no doubt, be conveyed by letter; but there are things on which it is almost impossible for any writer to express himself with adequate feeling; and there are things, too, which can be spoken, but which cannot be written. Therefore, though the journey must be a hurried one, Alice sent word down to Westmoreland that she was to be expected there in a day or two. On her return she was to go at once to Park Lane, and sleep there for the two nights which would intervene before the departure of the Pallisers.
On the day before she started for Westmoreland her father came to her in the middle of the day, and told her that John Grey was going to dine with him in Queen Anne Street on that evening.

Alice was resolved to visit Westmorland before she set out with the Pallisers. Kate had written to her three lines with her left hand, begging her to come. Alice had learned something of the truth about the accident from her father; or, rather, had heard her father's surmises. She had heard, too, how her cousin George had behaved when the will was read, and how he had afterwards disappeared. On her return from Westmorland she was to go at once to Park Lane for two nights before the departure of the Pallisers.
On the day before she started for Westmorland, her father told her that John Grey was going to dine with him in Queen Anne Street that evening.


"To-day, papa?" she asked.
"Yes, to-day. Why not? No man is less particular as to what he eats than Grey."
"I was not thinking of that, papa," she said.
To this Mr. Vavasor made no reply, but stood for some minutes looking out of the window. Then he prepared to leave the room, getting himself first as far as the table, where he lifted a book, and then on half-way to the door before Alice arrested him.
"Perhaps, papa, you and Mr. Grey had better dine alone."
"What do you mean by alone?"

"Today, papa?" she asked.
"Yes. Why not?"
"Perhaps, papa, you and Mr. Grey had better dine alone


"I meant without me,--as two men generally like to do."
"If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine at the club," said Mr. Vavasor, and then he again attempted to go.
"But, papa--"
"Well, my dear! If you mean to say that because of what has passed you object to meet Mr. Grey, I can only tell you it's nonsense,--confounded nonsense. If he chooses to come there can be no reason why you shouldn't receive him."
"It will look as though--"
"Look what?"
"As though he were asked as my guest."

, without me, as two men generally like to do."
"If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine at the club," said Mr. Vavasor. "If you mean to say that you object to meet Mr. Grey, I can only tell you it's nonsense. There can be no reason why you shouldn't receive him."
"It will look as though he were asked as my guest."


"That's nonsense. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him to come. I saw him again to-day, and he said he would come. He's not such a fool as to suppose after that, that you asked him."
"No; not that I asked him."
"And if you run away you'll only make more of the thing than it's worth. Of course I can't make you dine with me if you don't like."

"I saw him yesterday, and I asked him to come. He's not such a fool as to suppose that you asked him. And if you run away you'll only make more of the thing than it's worth. Of course I can't make you dine with me if you don't like."


Alice did not like it, but, after some consideration, she thought that she might be open to the imputation of having made more of the thing than it was worth if she ran away, as her father called it. She was going to leave the country for some six or eight months,--perhaps for a longer time than that, and it might be as well that she should have an opportunity of telling her plans to Mr. Grey. She could do it, she thought, in such a way as to make him understand that her last quarrel with George Vavasor was not supposed to alter the footing on which she stood with him. She did not doubt that her father had told everything to Mr. Grey. She knew well enough what her father's wishes still were. It was not odd that he should be asking John Grey to his house, though such exercises of domestic hospitality were very unusual with him. But,--so she declared to herself,--such little attempts on his part would be altogether thrown away. It was a pity that he had not yet learned to know her better. She would receive Mr. Grey as the mistress of her father's house now, for the last time; and then, on her return in the following year, he would be at Nethercoats, and the whole thing would be over.

Alice did not like it, but she saw her father's point. She was going to leave the country for some six or eight months, and it might be as well that she should have an opportunity of telling her plans to Mr. Grey. She did not doubt that her father had told him everything. She knew what her father's wishes still were; but she declared to herself that any attempts on his part would be thrown away.


She dressed herself very plainly, simply changing one black frock for another, and then sat herself in her drawing-room awaiting the two gentlemen. It was already past the hour of dinner before her father came up-stairs. She knew that he was in the house, and in her heart she accused him of keeping out of the way, in order that John Grey might be alone with her. Whether or no she were right in her suspicions John Grey did not take advantage of the opportunity offered to him. Her father came up first, and had seated himself silently in his arm-chair before the visitor was announced.

She dressed very plainly, simply changing one black frock for another, and then sat in her drawing-room awaiting the two gentlemen. Her father came up first, and then the visitor was announced.


As Mr. Grey entered the room Alice knew that she was flurried, but still she managed to carry herself with some dignity. His bearing was perfect. But then, as she declared to herself afterwards, no possible position in life would put him beside himself. He came up to her with his usual quiet smile,--a smile that was genial even in its quietness, and took her hand. He took it fairly and fully into his; but there was no squeezing, no special pressure, no love-making. And when he spoke to her he called her Alice, as though his doing so was of all things the most simply a matter of course. There was no tell-tale hesitation in his voice. When did he ever hesitate at anything? "I hear you are going abroad," he said, "with your cousin, Lady Glencora Palliser."
[Illustration: She managed to carry herself with some dignity.]

As Mr. Grey entered the room Alice knew that she was flurried, but she managed to carry herself with dignity. His bearing was perfect, as always. He came up to her with his usual quiet smile, and took her hand; but there was no squeezing, no special pressure. And when he called her Alice, it was simply as a matter of course. There was no tell-tale hesitation in his voice.
"I hear you are going abroad," he said, "with your cousin, Lady Glencora Palliser."


"Yes," said Alice; "I am going with them for a long tour. We shall not return, I fancy, till the end of next winter."
"Plans of that sort are as easily broken as they are made," said her father. "You won't be your own mistress; and I advise you not to count too surely upon getting further than Baden."
"If Mr. Palliser changes his mind of course I shall come home," said Alice, with a little attempt at a smile.
"I should think him a man not prone to changes," said Grey. "But all London is talking about his change of mind at this moment. They say at the clubs that he might have been in the Cabinet if he would, but that he has taken up this idea of going abroad at the moment when he was wanted."
"It's his wife's doing, I take it," said Mr. Vavasor.

"Yes," said Alice. "We shall not return, I fancy, till the end of next winter."
"Plans of that sort are easily broken," said her father. "I advise you not to count too surely upon getting further than Baden."
"If Mr. Palliser changes his mind of course I shall come home," said Alice, with an attempt at a smile.
"I should think him a man not prone to changes," said Grey. "But all London is talking about his change of mind at this moment. They say he might have been in the Cabinet, but that he has taken up this idea of going abroad."
"It's his wife's doing, I presume," said Mr. Vavasor.


"That's the worst of being in Parliament," said Grey. "A man can't do anything without giving a reason for it. There must be men for public life, of course; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be very much obliged to them."

"That's the worst of being in Parliament," said Grey. "A man can't do anything without giving a reason for it. There must be men in public life, of course; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be very much obliged to them."


Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked down with him to dinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued the matter with her. He had never asked her to argue with him. He had not condescended so far as that. Had he done so, she thought that she would have brought herself to think as he thought. She would have striven, at any rate, to do so. But she could not become unambitious, tranquil, fond of retirement, and philosophic, without an argument on the matter,--without being allowed even the poor grace of owning herself to be convinced. If a man takes a dog with him from the country up to town, the dog must live a town life without knowing the reason why;--must live a town life or die a town death. But a woman should not be treated like a dog.

Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked down with him to dinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued the matter with her. Had he done so, she thought that she would have tried to think as he thought. But she could not become unambitious, tranquil, and fond of retirement, without an argument on the matter.


"Had he deigned to discuss it with me!" Alice had so often said. "But, no; he will read his books, and I am to go there to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea for him." All this came upon her again as she walked down-stairs by his side; and with it there came a consciousness that she had been driven by this usage into the terrible engagement which she had made with her cousin. That, no doubt, was now over. There was no longer to her any question of her marrying George Vavasor. But the fact that she had been mad enough to think and talk of such a marriage, had of itself been enough to ruin her. "Things of that sort are so often over with you!" After such a speech as that to her from her father, Alice told herself that there could be no more "things of that sort" for her. But all her misery had been brought about by this scornful superiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world,--this looking down upon humanity.

"If only he had deigned to discuss it with me!" Alice had often said. "But, no; he will read his books, and I am to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea." All this came upon her again now; and with it there came a consciousness that it had driven her into the terrible engagement with her cousin. That was now over. There was no longer any question of her marrying George Vavasor; but merely thinking about such a marriage had been enough to ruin her.
But all her misery had been brought about by Grey's scornful superiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world - this looking down upon humanity.


"It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while her hand was yet upon his arm, "that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that no persons can be happier than those whom you call our public men."
"Ah!" said he, "that is our old quarrel." He said it as though the quarrel had simply been an argument between them, or a dozen arguments,--as arguments do come up between friends; not as though it had served to separate for life two persons who had loved each other dearly. "It's the old story of the town mouse and the country mouse,--as old as the hills. Mice may be civil for a while, and compliment each other; but when they come to speak their minds freely, each likes his own life best." She said nothing more at the moment, and the three sat down to their small dinner-table. It was astonishing to Alice that he should be able to talk in this way, to hint at such things, to allude to their former hopes and present condition, without a quiver in his voice, or, as far as she could perceive, without any feeling in his heart.
"Alice," said her father, "I can't compliment your cook upon her soup."

"It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while her hand was on his arm, "that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that nobody can be happier than those public men."
"Ah!" said he, "that is our old quarrel." He said it as though the quarrel had simply been an argument between friends; not as though it had separated for life two people who had loved each other dearly. "It's the old story of the town mouse and the country mouse. Mice may be civil for a while, but when they come to speak their minds freely, each likes his own life best."
She said nothing more, and the three sat down to their small dinner-table. It was astonishing to Alice that he should be able to talk in this way, to allude to their former hopes, without a quiver in his voice, and, as far as she could tell, without any feeling in his heart.
"Alice," said her father, "I can't compliment your cook upon her soup."


"You don't encourage her, papa, by eating it often enough. And then you only told me at two o'clock to-day."
"If a cook can't make soup between two and seven, she can't make it in a week."
"I hope Mr. Grey will excuse it," said Alice.
"Isn't it good?" said he. "I won't say that it is, because I should be pretending to have an opinion; but I should not have found out anything against it of myself."
"Where do you dine usually, now you are in London?" Mr. Vavasor asked.

"Papa, you only told me at two o'clock today."
"If a cook can't make soup between two and seven, she can't make it in a week."
"I hope Mr. Grey will excuse it," said Alice.
"Isn't it good?" said he. "I should not have found out anything against it myself."
"Where do you usually dine, now you are in London?" Mr. Vavasor asked.


"At the old club, at the corner of Suffolk Street. It's the oldest club in London, I believe. I never belonged to any other, and therefore can't compare them; but I can't imagine anything much nicer."
"They give you better soup than ours?" said Alice.
"You've an excellent cook," said Mr. Vavasor, with great gravity; "one of the best second-class cooks in London. We were very nearly getting him, but you nicked him just in time. I know him well."

"At the old club, at the corner of Suffolk Street."
"They give you better soup than ours?" said Alice.
"You've an excellent cook," said Mr. Vavasor, with great gravity.


"It's a great deal more than I do, or hope to do. There's another branch of public life for which I'm quite unfitted. I'd as soon be called on to choose a Prime Minister for the country, as I would a cook for a club."
"Of course you would," said Mr. Vavasor. "There may be as many as a dozen cooks about London to be looked up, but there are never more than two possible Prime Ministers about. And as one of them must be going out when the other is coming in, I don't see that there can be any difficulty. Moreover, now-a-days, people do their politics for themselves, but they expect to have their dinners cooked for them."


The little dinner went on quietly and very easily. Mr. Vavasor found fault with nearly everything. But as, on this occasion, the meat and the drink, with the manner of the eating and drinking, did not constitute the difficulty, Alice was indifferent to her father's censures. The thing needed was that she and Mr. Grey should be able to sit together at the same table without apparent consciousness of their former ties. Alice felt that she was succeeding indifferently well while she was putting in little mock defences for the cook. And as for John Grey, he succeeded so well that his success almost made Alice angry with him. It required no effort with him at all to be successful in this matter. "If he can forget all that has passed, so much the better," said Alice to herself when she got up into the drawing-room. Then she sat herself down on the sofa, and cried. Oh!

The little dinner went on quietly and easily. Mr. Vavasor found fault with nearly everything. But Alice was indifferent to her father's censures. The thing needed was that she and Mr. Grey should be able to sit together at the same table without apparent consciousness of their former ties. Alice felt that she was succeeding fairly well while she was putting in little mock defences for the cook. And as for John Grey, he succeeded so well that his success almost made Alice angry with him.
"If he can forget all that has passed, so much the better," she said to herself when she went alone into the drawing-room.
Then she sat down on the sofa, and cried. Oh!


what had she not lost! Had any woman ever been so mad, so reckless, so heartless as she had been! And she had done it, knowing that she loved him! She cried bitterly, and then went away to wash her eyes, that she might be ready to give him his coffee when he should come up-stairs.
"She does not look well," said Grey as soon as she had left the room.
"Well;--no: how can she look well after what she has gone through? I sometimes think, that of all the people I ever knew, she has been the most foolish. But, of course, it is not for me to say anything against my own child; and, of all people, not to you."
"Nothing that you could say against her would make any difference to me. I sometimes fancy that I know her better than you do."

what had she not lost! Had any woman ever been so mad, so reckless, so heartless as she had been! And she had done it, knowing that she loved him! She cried bitterly, and then went away to wash her eyes, so that she might be ready to give him his coffee when he should come upstairs.
"She does not look well," said Grey as soon as she had left the room.
"How can she look well after what she has gone through? I think, that of all the people I ever knew, she has been the most foolish. But, of course, it is not for me to say anything against my own child; especially to you."
"Nothing that you could say would make any difference to me. I sometimes fancy that I know her better than you do."


"And you think that she'll still come round again?"
"I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture to say whether or not such wounds as hers may be cured. There are hearts and bodies so organized, that in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas in others no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she be not cured it shall not be from want of perseverance on my part."
"Upon my word, Grey, I don't know how to thank you enough. I don't, indeed."
"It doesn't seem to me to be a case for thanking."

"And you think that she'll still come round again?"
"I do not know. No one can say whether such wounds as hers may be cured. But if she is not cured, it shall not be from lack of perseverance on my part."
"Upon my word, Grey, I don't know how to thank you enough.


"Of course it isn't. I know that well enough. And in the ordinary way of the world no father would think of thanking a man for wanting to marry his daughter. But things have come to such a pass with us, that, by George! I don't feel like any other father. I don't mind saying anything to you, you know. That claret isn't very good, but you might as well take another glass."
"Thank you, I will. I should have said that that was rather good wine, now."


"It's not just the thing. What's the use of my having good wine here, when nobody comes to drink it? But, as I was saying about Alice, of course I've felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I were responsible, and yet what could I do? She's her own mistress through it all. When she told me she was going to marry that horrible miscreant, my nephew, what could I do?"
"That's over now, and we need not talk about it."
"It's very kind of you to say so,--very. I believe she's a good girl. I do, indeed, in spite of it all."

I feel responsible, and yet what could I do? Alice is her own mistress. When she told me she was going to marry that horrible miscreant, my nephew, what could I do?"
"That's over now, and we need not talk about it."
"It's very kind of you to say so. I believe she's a good girl, in spite of it all."


"I've no doubt of her being what you call a good girl,--none in the least. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don't think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of conscience with her."
"Conscience!" said the angry father. "I hate such conscience. I like the conscience that makes a girl keep her word, and not bring disgrace upon those she belongs to."
"I shall not think that I am disgraced," said Grey, quietly, "if she will come and be my wife. She has meant to do right, and has endeavoured to take care of the happiness of other people rather than her own."
"She has taken very little care of mine," said Mr. Vavasor.

"I've no doubt of that. I don't think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of conscience with her."
"Conscience!" said the angry father. "I hate such conscience. I like the conscience that makes a girl keep her word, and not bring disgrace upon those she belongs to."
"I shall not think that I am disgraced," said Grey quietly, "if she will be my wife. She has meant to do right, and has tried to take care of other people's happiness rather than her own."
"She has taken very little care of mine," said Mr. Vavasor.


"I shall not be at all afraid to trust mine to her,--if she will let me do so. But she has been wounded sorely, and it must take time."
"And, in the meantime, what are we to do when she tells us that Mr. George Vavasor wants another remittance? Two thousand pounds a quarter comes heavy, you know!"
"Let us hope that he has had enough."
"Enough! Did such a man ever have enough?"
"Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. Come;--may I go up-stairs?"

"I shall not be afraid to trust mine to her - if she will let me. But she has been wounded sorely, and it must take time."
"And, in the meantime, what are we to do when Mr. George Vavasor wants another payment?"
"Let us hope that he has had enough."
"Enough! Did such a man ever have enough?"
"Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. May I go upstairs?"


"Oh, yes. I'll follow you. She'll think that I mean something if I leave you together."
From all this it will be seen that Alice's father and her lover still stood together on confidential terms. Not easily had Mr. Vavasor brought himself to speak of his daughter to John Grey, in such language as he had now used; but he had been forced by adverse circumstances to pass the Rubicon of parental delicacy; he had been driven to tell his wished-for son-in-law that he did wish to have him as a son-in-law; he had been compelled to lay aside those little airs of reserve with which a father generally speaks of his daughter,--and now all was open between them.
"And you really start to-morrow?" said Grey, as he stood close over Alice's work-table. Mr. Vavasor had followed him into the drawing-room, but had seated himself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fire. There was no tone of whispering in Grey's voice, but yet he spoke in a manner which showed that he did not intend to be audible on the other side of the room.

"Oh, yes. I'll follow you. She'll think that I mean something if I leave you together."
From all this it will be seen that Alice's father and her lover were on confidential terms.
"And you really start tomorrow?" said Grey, as he stood close to Alice's work-table. Mr. Vavasor had seated himself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fire, and although Grey did not whisper, he spoke in a low voice, inaudible to her father.


"I start for Westmoreland to-morrow. We do not leave London for the continent till the latter end of next week."
"But you will not be here again?"
"No; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street."
"And you will be away for many months?"
"Mr. Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of his return. He mentioned Easter to Lady Glencora. I have not seen him myself since I agreed to go with him."
"What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?" He had now gently seated himself on the sofa beside her;--not so close to her as to give her just cause to move away, but yet so near as to make his conversation with her quite private.

"I start for Westmorland tomorrow. We leave London for the continent at the end of next week. I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street."
"And you will be away for many months?"
"Mr. Palliser talked of returning next Easter."
"What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?" He had now gently seated himself on the sofa beside her, but not too close.


"I don't think that will be very likely," she replied, not knowing what to say.
"I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could not bring myself to fall in upon your track unawares. I shall go abroad, but it will not be till the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone,--and I shall endeavour to find you."
"To find me, Mr. Grey!" There was a quivering in her voice, as she spoke, which she could not prevent, though she would have given worlds to prevent it. "I do not think that will be quite fair."
"It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your friends unawares."

"I don't think that will be very likely," she replied, not knowing what to say.
"I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could not bring myself to fall in your way unawares. I shall go abroad in the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone - and I shall try to find you."
"To find me, Mr. Grey!" There was a quivering in her voice, which she could not prevent. "I do not think that will be quite fair."
"It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your friends unexpectedly."


"I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to know you, of course."
"And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you will not be glad to see me? That's what you mean?"
"I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help."

"I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to meet you, of course."
"But you will not be glad to see me? That's what you mean?"
"I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help."


"I think differently, Alice,--quite differently. The more we meet the better,--that is what I think. But I will not stop to trouble you now. Good night!" Then he got up and went away, and her father went with him. Mr. Vavasor, as he rose from his chair, declared that he would just walk through a couple of streets; but Alice knew that he was gone to his club.

"I think differently, Alice. The more we meet the better, that is what I think. But I will not stay to trouble you now. Good night!" Then he got up and went away, and her father went to his club.


It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Greenow was a woman of great resources, and that she would be very prudent for others, though I fear the verdict of those who know her must go against her in regard to prudence in herself. Her marriage with Captain Bellfield was a rash act,--certainly a rash act, although she did take so much care in securing the payment of her own income into her own hands; but the manner in which she made him live discreetly for some months previous to his marriage, the tact with which she renewed the friendship which had existed between him and Mr. Cheesacre, and the skill she used in at last providing Mr. Cheesacre with a wife, oblige us all to admit that, as a general, she had great powers.
When Alice reached Vavasor Hall she found Charlie Fairstairs established there on a long visit. Charlie and Kate were to be the two bridesmaids, and, as Kate told her cousin in their first confidential intercourse on the evening of Alice's arrival, there were already great hopes in the household that the master of Oileymead might be brought to surrender. It was true that Charlie had not a shilling, and that Mr. Cheesacre had set his heart on marrying an heiress. It was true that Miss Fairstairs had always stood low in the gentleman's estimation, as being connected with people who were as much without rank and fashion as they were without money, and that the gentleman loved rank and fashion dearly. It was true that Charlie was no beauty, and that Cheesacre had an eye for feminine charms. It was true that he had despised Charlie, and had spoken his contempt openly;--that he had seen the girl on the sands at Yarmouth every summer for the last ten years, and about the streets of Norwich every winter, and had learned to regard her as a thing poor and despicable, because she was common in his eyes. It is thus that the Cheesacres judge of people. But in spite of all these difficulties Mrs. Greenow had taken up poor Charlie's case, and Kate Vavasor expressed a strong opinion that her aunt would win.

It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Greenow was a resourceful woman, and very prudent for others, though perhaps not for herself. Her marriage with Captain Bellfield was certainly a rash act, although she did take so much care to keep her income in her own hands; but the manner in which she made him live discreetly for some months before their marriage, the tact with which she renewed the friendship between him and Mr. Cheesacre, and the skill she used in at last providing Mr. Cheesacre with a wife, oblige us to admit that, as a general, she had great powers.
When Alice reached Vavasor Hall she found Charlie Fairstairs staying there on a long visit. Charlie and Kate were to be the two bridesmaids, and, as Kate told her cousin in their first confidential talk that evening, there were already great hopes that the master of Oileymead might be brought to surrender.
It was true that Charlie had not a shilling, and that Mr. Cheesacre had set his heart on marrying an heiress. It was true that Miss Fairstairs' connections were without rank or fashion, and that the gentleman loved rank and fashion dearly. It was true that Charlie was no beauty, and that Cheesacre had an eye for feminine charms. It was true that he had despised Charlie, and had spoken his contempt openly; that he had learned to regard her as poor and despicable, because she was common in his eyes. It is thus that the Cheesacres judge of people. But in spite of all these difficulties Mrs. Greenow had taken up poor Charlie's case, and Kate Vavasor expressed a strong opinion that her aunt would win.


"What has she done to the man?" Alice asked.
"Coaxed him; simply that. She has made herself so much his master that he doesn't know how to say no to her. Sometimes I have thought that he might possibly run away, but I have abandoned that fear now. She has little confidences with him from day to day, which are so alluring to him that he cannot tear himself off. In the middle of one of them he will find himself engaged."
"But, the unfortunate girl! Won't it be a wretched marriage for her?"

"What has she done to the man?" Alice asked.
"Coaxed him; simply that. He doesn't know how to say no to her. Sometimes I have thought that he might run away, but I don't think so now. She has little chats with him from day to day, which are so alluring to him that he cannot tear himself off. In the middle of one of them he will find himself engaged."
"But the unfortunate girl! Won't it be a wretched marriage for her?"


"Not at all. She'll make him a very good wife. He's one of those men to whom any woman, after a little time, will come to be the same. He'll be rough with her once a month or so, and perhaps tell her that she brought no money with her; but that won't break any bones, and Charlie will know how to fight her own battles. She'll save his money if she brings none, and in a few years' time they will quite understand each other."

"Not at all. She'll make him a very good wife. He's one of those men to whom any woman, after a little time, will be the same. He'll be rough with her once a month or so, and perhaps tell her that she brought no money; but that won't break any bones, and Charlie will know how to fight her own battles. She'll save his money if she brings none, and in a few years' time they will quite understand each other."


Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield were at this time living in lodgings together, at Penrith, but came over and spent every other day at Vavasor, returning always to their lodgings in the evening. It wanted but eight days to the marriage when Alice arrived, and preparations for that event were in progress. "It's to be very quiet, Alice," said her aunt; "as quiet as such a thing can be made. I owe that to the memory of the departed one. I know that he is looking down upon me, and that he approves all that I do. Indeed, he told me once that he did not want me to live desolate for his sake. If I didn't feel that he was looking down and approving it, I should be wretched indeed." She took Alice up to see her trousseau, and gave the other expectant bride some little hints which, under present circumstances, might be useful. "Yes, indeed; only three-and-sixpence a piece, and they're quite real. Feel them.

Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield were at this time living in lodgings together, at Penrith, but came over and spent every other day at Vavasor, returning to their lodgings in the evening. It was eight days to the marriage when Alice arrived.
"It's to be very quiet, Alice," said her aunt; "as quiet as can be. I owe that to the memory of the departed one. I know that he is looking down upon me, and that he approves all that I do."
She took Alice up to see her trousseau, and gave the other expectant bride some useful little hints about linen.


You wouldn't get them in the shops under six." Alice did feel them, and wondered whether her aunt could have saved the half-crown honestly. "I had my eyes about me when I was up in town, my dear. And look here, these are quite new,--have never been on yet, and I had them when I was married before. There is nothing like being careful, my dear. I hate meanness, as everybody knows who knows me; but there is nothing like being careful. You have a lot of rich people about you just now, and will have ever so many things given you which you won't want. Do you put them all by, and be careful. They may turn out useful, you know." Saying this, Mrs. Greenow folded up, among her present bridal belongings, sundries of the wealth which had accrued to her in an earlier stage of her career.

"Look here, these are quite new - have never been on yet, and I had them when I was married before. I hate meanness; but there is nothing like being careful, my dear. You have a lot of rich people about you just now, and will have ever so many things given you which you won't want. Do keep them all carefully. They may turn out useful, you know."


And then Mrs. Greenow opened her mind to Alice about the Captain. "He's as good as gold, my dear; he is, indeed,--in his own way. Of course, I know that he has faults, and I should like to know who hasn't. Although poor dear Greenow certainly was more without them than anybody else I ever knew." As this remembrance came upon Mrs. Greenow she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Alice observed that that which she held still bore the deepest hem of widowhood. They would be used, no doubt, till the last day, and then put by in lavender for future possible occasions. "Bellfield may have been a little extravagant. I dare say he has. But how can a man help being extravagant when he hasn't got any regular income? He has been ill-treated in his profession; very.

And then Mrs. Greenow opened her mind about the Captain. "He's as good as gold, my dear, in his own way. Of course, I know that he has faults, and I should like to know who hasn't. Bellfield may have been a little extravagant, I dare say. But how can a man help being extravagant when he hasn't got any regular income? He has been ill-treated in his profession.


It makes my blood curdle when I think of it. After fighting his country's battles through blood, and dust, and wounds;--but I'll tell you about that another time."
"I suppose a man seldom does make a fortune, aunt, by being a soldier?"
"Never, my dear; much better be a tailor. Don't you ever marry a soldier. But as I was saying, he is the best-tempered creature alive, and the staunchest friend I ever met. You should hear what Mr. Cheesacre says of him! But you don't know Mr. Cheesacre?"
"No, aunt, not yet. If you remember, he went away before I saw him when he came here before."

After fighting his country's battles through blood, and dust, and wounds - but I'll tell you about that another time."
"I suppose a man seldom does make a fortune, aunt, by being a soldier?"
"Never, my dear. But he is the best-tempered creature alive, and the staunchest friend I ever met. You should hear what Mr. Cheesacre says of him! But you don't know Mr. Cheesacre?"
"No, aunt, not yet."


"Yes, I know, poor fellow! Between you and me, Kate might have had him if she liked; but perhaps Kate was right."
"I don't think he would have suited Kate at all."
"Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate shouldn't give herself airs. Money's never dirty, you know. But perhaps it's all for the best. There's a sweet girl here to whom he is violently attached, and who I hope will become Mrs. Cheesacre. But as I was saying, the friendship between these two men is quite wonderful, and I have always observed that when a man can create that kind of affection in the bosom of another man, he invariably is,--the sort of man,--the man, in fact, who makes a good husband."

"Between you and me, Kate might have had him if she liked; but perhaps Kate was right."
"I don't think he would have suited Kate at all."
"Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate shouldn't give herself airs. But perhaps it's all for the best. But as I was saying, the friendship between those two men is quite wonderful, and I have always observed that when a man can create that kind of affection in the bosom of another man, he is the sort of man who makes a good husband."


Alice knew the story of Charlie Fairstairs and her hopes; knew of the quarrels between Bellfield and Cheesacre; knew almost as much of Bellfield's past life as Mrs. Greenow did herself; and Mrs. Greenow was no doubt aware that such was the case. Nevertheless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and told it as though she believed every word that she spoke.

Alice knew almost as much of Bellfield's past life as Mrs. Greenow did herself; and Mrs. Greenow was aware of it. Nevertheless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and seemed to believe every word that she spoke.


On the following day the two gentlemen came over, according to custom, and Alice observed that Miss Fairstairs hardly spoke to Mr. Cheesacre. Indeed her manner of avoiding that gentleman was so very marked, that it was impossible not to observe it. They drank tea out of doors, and when Mr. Cheesacre on one occasion sauntered across towards the end of the bench on which Charlie was sitting, Charlie got up and walked away. And in strolling about the place afterwards, and in going up through the wood, she was at great pains to attach herself to some other person, so that there should be no such attaching between her and the owner of Oileymead. At one time Mr. Cheesacre did get close up to her and spoke some word, some very indifferent word. He knew that he was being cut and he wanted to avoid the appearance of a scene. "I don't know, sir," said Charlie, again moving away with excellent dignity, and she at once attached herself to Alice who was close by. "I know you have just come home from Switzerland," said Charlie. "Beautiful Switzerland! My heart pants for Switzerland.

On the following day the two gentlemen came over, and Alice observed that Miss Fairstairs hardly spoke to Mr. Cheesacre, but avoided him very markedly. They drank tea out of doors, and when Mr. Cheesacre sauntered towards the end of the bench on which Charlie was sitting, Charlie got up and walked away. And when they strolled about the place afterwards, she was at great pains to attach herself to some other person, so that Mr. Cheesacre could not attach himself to her.
At one time Mr. Cheesacre did get close to her and spoke some indifferent word. He knew that he was being cut.
"I don't know, sir," said Charlie, again moving away with dignity to Alice, who was close by. "I know you have just come home from Switzerland," said Charlie. "Beautiful Switzerland!


Do tell me something about Switzerland!" Mr. Cheesacre had heard that Alice was the dear friend of a lady who would probably some day become a duchess. He therefore naturally held her in awe, and slunk away. On this occasion Mrs. Greenow clung lovingly to her future husband, and the effect was that Mr. Cheesacre found himself to be very much alone and unhappy. He had generally enjoyed these days at Vavasor Hall, having found himself, or fancied himself, to be the dominant spirit there. That Mrs. Greenow was always in truth the dominant spirit I need hardly say; but she knew how to make a companion happy, and well also how to make him wretched. On the whole of this day poor Cheesacre was very wretched.
"I don't think I shall go there any more," he said to Bellfield, as he drove the gig back to Penrith that evening.
"Not go there any more, Cheesy," said Bellfield; "why, we are to have the dinner out in the field on Friday. It's your own bespeak."

Do tell me something about Switzerland!"
Mr. Cheesacre had heard that Alice was the dear friend of a lady who would some day become a duchess. He therefore naturally held her in awe, and slunk away. Mrs. Greenow clung lovingly to her future husband, and Mr. Cheesacre was very much alone and unhappy. He had generally enjoyed these days at Vavasor Hall, having fancied himself to be the dominant spirit there. That Mrs. Greenow was always in truth the dominant spirit I need hardly say; but she knew how to make a companion happy, and also how to make him wretched. On this day poor Cheesacre was very wretched.
"I don't think I shall go there any more," he said to Bellfield, as they drove back to Penrith that evening.
"Not go there any more, Cheesy?" said Bellfield; "why, we are to have the dinner in the field on Friday. It's your own doing."


"Well, yes; I'll go on Friday, but not after that."
"You'll stop and see me turned off, old fellow?"
"What's the use? You'll get your wife, and that's enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came down from London with her d----d airs;"--the girl from London with the airs was poor Alice,--"the place is quite changed. I'm blessed if the whole thing isn't as dark as ditch-water. I'm a plain man, I am; and I do hate your swells." Against this view of the case Captain Bellfield argued stoutly; but Cheesacre had been offended, and throughout the next day he was cross and touchy. He wouldn't play billiards, and on one occasion hinted that he hoped he should get that money soon.

"Well, yes; I'll go on Friday, but not after that."
"You'll stop and see me married, old fellow?"
"What's the use? You'll get your wife, and that's enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came down from London with her d---d airs;" - he meant poor Alice - "the place is quite changed. I do hate your swells." Captain Bellfield argued with him; but Cheesacre was cross and touchy.


"You did it admirably, my dear," said Mrs. Greenow that night to Charlie Fairstairs. The widow was now on terms almost more confidential with Miss Fairstairs than with her own niece, Kate Vavasor. She loved a little bit of intrigue; and though Kate could intrigue, as we have seen in this story, Kate would not join her aunt's intrigues. "You did it admirably. I really did not think you had so much in you."
"Oh, I don't know," said Charlie, blushing at the praise.
"And it's the only way, my dear;--the only way, I mean, for you with such a one as him. And if he does come round, you'll find him an excellent husband."
"I don't think he cares for me a bit," said Charlie whimpering.

"You did it admirably, my dear," said Mrs. Greenow that night to Charlie Fairstairs. "I really did not think you had so much in you."
"Oh, I don't know," said Charlie, blushing at the praise.
"And it's the only way, my dear, with such a one as him. If he does come round, you'll find him an excellent husband."
"I don't think he cares for me a bit," said Charlie, whimpering.


"Pooh, nonsense! Girls never know whether men care for them or not. If he asks you to marry him, won't that be a sign that he cares for you? and if he don't, why, there'll be no harm done."
"If he thinks it's his money--" began Charlie.

"Pooh, nonsense! Girls never know whether men care for them or not. If he asks you to marry him, won't that be a sign that he cares for you? and if he don't, why, there'll be no harm done."
"If he thinks it's his money-" began Charlie.


"Now, don't talk nonsense, Charlie," said Mrs. Greenow, "or you'll make me sick. Of course it's his money, more or less. You don't mean to tell me you'd go and fall in love with him if he was like Bellfield, and hadn't got a rap? I can afford that sort of thing; you can't. I don't mean to say you ain't to love him. Of course, you're to love him; and I've no doubt you will, and make him a very good wife. I always think that worldliness and sentimentality are like brandy-and-water. I don't like either of them separately, but taken together they make a very nice drink. I like them warm, with ---- as the gentlemen say." To this little lecture Miss Fairstairs listened with dutiful patience, and when it was over she said nothing more of her outraged affections or of her disregard for money.

"Now, don't talk nonsense, Charlie," said Mrs. Greenow, "Of course it's his money, more or less. You don't mean to tell me you'd go and fall in love with him if he was like Bellfield, and hadn't got a rap? I can afford that sort of thing; you can't. I don't mean to say you ain't to love him. I've no doubt you will, and make him a very good wife.


"And now, my dear, mind you look your best on Friday. I'll get him away immediately after dinner, and when he's done with me you can contrive to be in his way, you know."
The next day was what Kate called the blank day at the Hall. The ladies were all alone, and devoted themselves, as was always the case on the blank days, to millinery and household cares. Mrs. Greenow, as has before been stated, had taken a lease of the place, and her troubles extended beyond her mere bridal wardrobe. Large trunks of household linen had arrived, and all this linen was marked with the name of Greenow; Greenow, 5.58; Greenow, 7.52; and a good deal had to be done before this ancient wealth of housewifery could probably be converted to Bellfield purposes. "We must cut out the pieces, Jeannette, and work 'em in again ever so carefully," said the widow, after some painful consideration. "It will always show," said Jeannette, shaking her head. "But the other would show worse," said the widow; "and if you finedraw it, not one person in ten will notice it. We'd always put them on with the name to the feet, you know."

And now, my dear, mind you look your best on Friday. I'll get him away immediately after dinner, and when he's done with me you can contrive to be in his way, you know."
The next day the ladies were all alone, and devoted themselves to millinery and household cares. Large trunks of household linen had arrived, all of it marked with the name of Greenow.
"We must cut out the pieces, Jeannette, and work 'em in again ever so carefully," said the widow.
"It will always show," said Jeannette, shaking her head.
"But not one person in ten will notice it. We'd always put them on the beds with the name to the feet, you know."


It was not quite true that Cheesacre had bespoke the dinner out in the field, although no doubt he thought he had done so. The little treat, if treat it was, had all been arranged by Mrs. Greenow, who was ever ready to create festivities. There was not much scope for a picnic here. Besides their own party, which, of course, included the Captain and Mr. Cheesacre, no guest could be caught except the clergyman;--that low-church clergyman, who was so anxious about his income, and with whom the old Squire had quarrelled. Mrs. Greenow had quickly obtained the advantage of his alliance, and he, who was soon to perform on her behalf the marriage ceremony, had promised to grace this little festival. The affair simply amounted to this, that they were to eat their dinner uncomfortably in the field instead of comfortably in the dining-room. But Mrs. Greenow knew that Charlie's charms would be much strengthened by a dinner out-of-doors. "Nothing," she said to Kate, "nothing makes a man come forward so well as putting him altogether out of his usual tack. A man who wouldn't think of such a thing in the drawing-room would be sure to make an offer if he spent an evening with a young lady down-stairs in the kitchen."

It was not quite true that Cheesacre had arranged the dinner out in the field, although no doubt he thought he had done so. The little treat had been arranged by Mrs. Greenow. There was not much scope for a picnic here. Besides their own party, no guest could be caught except the clergyman. He was soon to perform Mrs. Greenow's marriage ceremony, and had promised to grace this little festival. It amounted to this: that they were to eat their dinner uncomfortably in the field instead of comfortably in the dining-room. But Mrs. Greenow knew that Charlie's charms would be much strengthened by a dinner out-of-doors.
"Nothing," she said to Kate, "makes a man come forward so well as putting him of his usual track."


At two o'clock the gig from Penrith arrived at the Hall, and for the next hour both Cheesacre and the Captain were engaged in preparing the tables and carrying out the viands. The Captain and Charlie Fairstairs were going to lay the cloth. "Let me do it," said Cheesacre taking it out of the Captain's hands. "Oh, certainly," said the Captain, giving up his prize. "Captain Bellfield would do it much better," said Charlie, with a little toss of her head; "he's as good as a married man, and they always do these things best."

At two o'clock the gig from Penrith arrived at the Hall, and for the next hour both Cheesacre and the Captain were engaged in preparing the tables and carrying out the food. The Captain and Charlie Fairstairs were going to lay the cloth.
"Let me do it," said Cheesacre, taking it out of the Captain's hands.
"Oh, certainly," said the Captain.
"Captain Bellfield would do it much better," said Charlie, with a little toss of her head; "he's as good as a married man, and they always do these things best."


The day was fine, and although the shade was not perfect, and the midges were troublesome, the dinner went off very nicely. It was beautiful to see how well Mrs. Greenow remembered herself about the grace, seeing that the clergyman was there. She was just in time, and would have been very angry with herself, and have thought herself awkward, had she forgotten it. Mr. Cheesacre sat on her right hand, and the clergyman on her left, and she hardly spoke a word to Bellfield. Her sweetest smiles were all given to Cheesacre. She was specially anxious to keep her neighbour, the parson, in good-humour, and therefore illuminated him once in every five minutes with a passing ray, but the full splendour of her light was poured out upon Cheesacre, as it never had before been poured. How she did flatter him, and with what a capacious gullet did he swallow her flatteries! Oileymead was the only paradise she had ever seen. "Ah, me; when I think of it sometimes,--but never mind." A moment came to him when he thought that even yet he might win the race, and send Bellfield away howling into outer darkness.

The day was fine, and although the midges were troublesome, the dinner went off very nicely. Mrs. Greenow remembered the grace just in time, with the clergyman there. Mr. Cheesacre sat on her right, and the clergyman on her left, and she hardly spoke a word to Bellfield. Her sweetest smiles were all given to Cheesacre. She was anxious to keep the parson in good-humour, and therefore illuminated him once in every five minutes with a passing ray, but the full splendour of her light was poured out upon Cheesacre, as it never had before been poured. How she did flatter him! Oileymead was the only paradise she had ever seen.
"Ah, me; when I think of it sometimes - but never mind." A moment came to him when he thought that even yet he might win the race, and send Bellfield away howling into outer darkness.


A moment came to him, and the widow saw the moment well. "I know I have done for the best," said she, "and therefore I shall never regret it; at any rate, it's done now."
"Not done yet," said he plaintively.

The widow saw the moment well. "I know I have done for the best," said she, "and at any rate, it's done now."
"Not done yet," said he plaintively.


"Yes; done, and done, and done. Besides, a man in your position in the county should always marry a wife younger than yourself,--a good deal younger." Cheesacre did not understand the argument, but he liked the allusion to his position in the county, and he perceived that it was too late for any changes in the present arrangements. But he was happy; and all that feeling of animosity to Alice had vanished from his breast. Poor Alice! she, at any rate, was innocent. With so much of her own to fill her mind, she had been but little able to take her share in the Greenow festivities; and we may safely say, that if Mr. Cheesacre's supremacy was on any occasion attacked, it was not attacked by her. His supremacy on this occasion was paramount, and during the dinner, and after the dinner, he was allowed to give his orders to Bellfield in a manner that must have gratified him much. "You must have another glass of champagne with me, my friend," said Mrs. Greenow; and Mr. Cheesacre drank the other glass of champagne. It was not the second nor the third that he had taken.

"Yes; done. Besides, a man in your position in the county should always marry a wife younger than yourself." Cheesacre did not understand the argument, but he liked the allusion to his position in the county, and he was happy. Both during and after the dinner, he was allowed to give his orders to Bellfield in a manner that gratified him much.
"You must have another glass of champagne with me, my friend," said Mrs. Greenow; and Mr. Cheesacre drank the other glass of champagne.


After dinner they started off for a ramble through the fields, and Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Cheesacre were together. I think that Charlie Fairstairs did not go with them at all. I think she went into the house and washed her face, and brushed her hair, and settled her muslin. I should not wonder if she took off her frock and ironed it again. Captain Bellfield, I know, went with Alice, and created some astonishment by assuring her that he fully meant to correct the error of his ways. "I know what it is," he said, "to be connected with such a family as yours, Miss Vavasor." He too had heard about the future duchess, and wished to be on his best behaviour. Kate fell to the lot of the parson.
"This is the last time we shall ever be together in this way," said the widow to her friend.
"Oh, no," said Cheesacre; "I hope not."

After dinner they started off for a ramble through the fields, and Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Cheesacre were together. Charlie Fairstairs did not go with them at all. I think she went into the house and washed her face, and brushed her hair, and settled her muslin. Captain Bellfield went with Alice, and assured her that he fully meant to correct the error of his ways.
"I know what it is," he said, "to be connected with such a family as yours, Miss Vavasor." He too had heard about the future duchess, and wished to be on his best behaviour. Kate fell to the lot of the parson.
"This is the last time we shall ever be together in this way," said the widow to her friend.


"The last time. On Wednesday I become Mrs. Bellfield, and I need hardly say that I have many things to think of before that; but Mr. Cheesacre, I hope we are not to be strangers hereafter?" Mr. Cheesacre said that he hoped not. Oileymead would always be open to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield.
"We all know your hospitality," said she; "it is not to-day nor to-morrow that I or my husband,--that is to be,--will have to learn that. He always declares that you are the very beau ideal of an English country gentleman."
"Merely a poor Norfolk farmer," said Cheesacre. "I never want to put myself beyond my own place. There has been some talk about the Commission of the Peace, but I don't think anything of it."
"It has been the greatest blessing in the world for him that he has ever known you," said Mrs. Greenow, still talking about her future husband.

"On Wednesday I become Mrs. Bellfield; but Mr. Cheesacre, I hope we are not to be strangers hereafter?" Mr. Cheesacre said that he hoped not. Oileymead would always be open to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield.
"We all know your hospitality," said she; "my husband to be always declares that you are the very ideal of an English country gentleman."
"Merely a poor Norfolk farmer," said Cheesacre. "There has been some talk about the Commission of the Peace, but I don't think anything of it."
"It has been the greatest blessing in the world for him that he has known you," said Mrs. Greenow.


"I've tried to be good-natured; that's all. D---- me, Mrs. Greenow, what's the use of living if one doesn't try to be good-natured? There isn't a better fellow than Bellfield living. He and I ran for the same plate, and he has won it. He's a lucky fellow, and I don't begrudge him his luck."
"That's so manly of you, Mr. Cheesacre! But, indeed, the plate you speak of was not worth your running for."
"I may have my own opinion about that, you know."

"I've tried to be good-natured; that's all. There isn't a better fellow than Bellfield living. He and I ran for the same plate, and he has won it. He's a lucky fellow, and I don't begrudge him his luck."
"That's so manly of you, Mr. Cheesacre! But, indeed, the plate you speak of was not worth your running for."
"I may have my own opinion about that, you know."


"It was not. Nobody knows that as well as I do, or could have thought over the whole matter so often. I know very well what my mission is in life. The mistress of your house, Mr. Cheesacre, should not be any man's widow."
"She wouldn't be a widow then, you know."
"A virgin heart should be yours; and a virgin heart may be yours, if you choose to accept it."
"Oh, bother!"
"If you choose to take my solicitude on your behalf in that way, of course I have done. You were good enough to say just now that you wished to see me and my husband in your hospitable halls. After all that has passed, do you think that I could be a visitor at your house unless there is a mistress there?"

"It was not. I know very well what my mission is in life. The mistress of your house, Mr. Cheesacre, should not be any man's widow. A virgin heart should be yours; and a virgin heart may be yours, if you choose to accept it."
"Oh, bother!"
"If you choose to take my solicitude in that way, of course I will stop. You were good enough to say that you wished to see me and my husband in your hospitable halls. But do you think that I could be a visitor at your house unless there is a mistress there?"


"Upon my word, I think you might."
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; certainly not. For all our sakes, I should decline. But if you were married--"
"You are always wanting to marry me, Mrs. Greenow."
"I do, I do. It is the only way in which there can be any friendship between us, and not for worlds would I lose that advantage for my husband,--let alone what I may feel for myself."
"Why didn't you take me yourself, Mrs. Greenow?"
"If you can't understand, it is not for me to say anything more, Mr. Cheesacre. If you value the warm affection of a virgin heart--"

"Upon my word, I think you might."
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; certainly not. But if you were married-"
"You are always wanting to marry me off, Mrs. Greenow."
"I am. It is the only way in which there can be any friendship between us. If you value the warm affection of a virgin heart-"


"Why, Mrs. Greenow, all yesterday she wouldn't say a word to me."
"Not say a word to you? Is that all you know about it? Are you so ignorant that you cannot see when a girl's heart is breaking beneath her stays?" This almost improper allusion had quite an effect on Mr. Cheesacre's sensitive bosom. "Did you say a word to her yesterday? And if not, why have you said so many words before?"
"Oh, Mrs. Greenow; come!"

"Why, Mrs. Greenow, all yesterday she wouldn't say a word to me."
"Is that all you know about it? Are you so ignorant that you cannot see when a girl's heart is breaking beneath her stays?" This almost improper allusion had quite an effect on Mr. Cheesacre's sensitive bosom. "Did you say a word to her yesterday?"
"Oh, Mrs. Greenow; come!"


"It is, oh, Mrs. Greenow. But it is time that we should go back to them." They had been sitting all this time on a bank, under a hedge. "We will have our tea, and you shall have your pipe and brandy-and-water, and Charlie shall bring it to you. Shall she, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"If she likes she shall, of course."
"Do you ask her, and she'll like it it quick enough. But remember, Mr. Cheesacre, I'm quite serious in what I say about your having a mistress for your house. Only think what an age you'll be when your children grow up, if you don't marry soon now."

"But it is time that we should go back to them. We will have our tea, and you shall have your pipe and brandy-and-water, and Charlie shall bring it to you. Shall she, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"If she likes she shall, of course."
"But remember, Mr. Cheesacre, I'm quite serious in what I say about your having a mistress for your house. Only think what an age you'll be when your children grow up, if you don't marry soon."


They returned to the field in which they had dined, and found Charlie under the trees, with her muslin looking very fresh. "What, all a-mort?" said Mrs. Greenow. Charlie did not quite understand this, but replied that she preferred being alone. "I have told him that you should fill his pipe for him," said Mrs. Greenow. "He doesn't care for ladies to fill his pipe for him," said Charlie. "Do you try," said the widow, "while I go indoors and order the tea."

They returned to the field in which they had dined, and found Charlie under the trees, with her muslin looking very fresh.
"I have told him that you should fill his pipe for him," said Mrs. Greenow.
"He doesn't care for ladies to fill his pipe for him," said Charlie.
"Try," said the widow, "while I go indoors and order the tea."


It had been necessary to put the bait very close before Cheesacre's eyes, or there would have been no hope that he might take it. The bait had been put so very close that we must feel sure that he saw the hook. But there are fish so silly that they will take the bait although they know the hook is there. Cheesacre understood it all. Many things he could not see, but he could see that Mrs. Greenow was trying to catch him as a husband for Charlie Fairstairs; and he knew also that he had always despised Charlie, and that no worldly advantage whatever would accrue to him by a marriage with such a girl. But there she was, and he didn't quite know how to avoid it. She did look rather nice in her clear-starched muslin frock, and he felt that he should like to kiss her. He needn't marry her because he kissed her. The champagne which had created the desire also gave him the audacity. He gave one glance around him to see that he was not observed, and then he did kiss Charlie Fairstairs under the trees.

It had been necessary to put the bait very close before Cheesacre's eyes, or there would have been no hope that he might take it. The bait had been put so very close that we must feel sure that he saw the hook. But there are fish so silly that they will take the bait although they know the hook is there. Cheesacre understood it all. He could see that Mrs. Greenow was trying to catch him as a husband for Charlie Fairstairs; and he knew also that he had always despised Charlie, and that no worldly advantage whatever would accrue to him by a marriage with such a girl.
But there she was, and he didn't quite know how to avoid it. She did look rather nice in her muslin frock, and he felt that he should like to kiss her. He needn't marry her because he kissed her. The champagne which had created the desire also gave him the audacity. He gave one glance around him to see that he was not observed, and then he did kiss Charlie Fairstairs under the trees.


"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie. "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," echoed a laughing voice; and poor Cheesacre, looking round, saw that Mrs. Greenow, who ought to have been inside the house looking after the boiling water, was moving about for some unknown reason within sight of the spot which he had chosen for his dalliance.
"Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie sobbing, "how dare you do that?--and where all the world could see you?"
"It was only Mrs. Greenow," said Cheesacre.
"And what will she think of me?"
"Lord bless you--she won't think anything about it."

"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie.
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," echoed a laughing voice; and poor Cheesacre, looking round, saw that Mrs. Greenow, who ought to have been inside the house looking after the boiling water, was for some reason quite close by.
"Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie sobbing, "how dare you do that? - where all the world could see you?"
"It was only Mrs. Greenow," said Cheesacre.
"And what will she think of me?"
"Lord bless you - she won't think anything about it."


"But I do;--I think a great deal about it. I don't know what to do, I don't;--I don't." Whereupon Charlie got up from her seat under the trees and began to move away slowly. Cheesacre thought about it for a moment or two. Should he follow her or should he not? He knew that he had better not follow her. He knew that she was bait with a very visible hook. He knew that he was a big fish for whom these two women were angling. But after all, perhaps it wouldn't do him much harm to be caught. So he got up and followed her.

"But I do; I think a great deal about it. I don't know what to do." Whereupon Charlie got up from her seat under the trees and began to move away slowly.
Cheesacre thought about it for a moment or two. Should he follow her or should he not? He knew that he had better not follow her. He knew that she was bait with a very visible hook. But after all, perhaps it wouldn't do him much harm to be caught.
So he got up and followed her.


I don't suppose she meant to take the way towards the woods,--towards the little path leading to the old summer-house up in the trees. She was too much beside herself to know where she was going, no doubt. But that was the path she did take, and before long she and Cheesacre were in the summerhouse together. "Don't, Sam, don't! Somebody really will be coming. Well, then, there. Now I won't do it again." 'Twas thus she spoke when the last kiss was given on this occasion;--unless there may have been one or two later in the evening, to which it is not necessary more especially to allude here. But on the occasion of that last kiss in the summer-house Miss Fairstairs was perfectly justified by circumstances, for she was then the promised bride of Mr. Cheesacre.

I don't suppose she meant to take the way towards the woods and the old summer-house: she was too much beside herself to know where she was going, no doubt. But that was the path she did take, and before long she and Cheesacre were in the summerhouse together.
"Don't, Sam, don't! Somebody really will be coming. Well, then, there. Now I won't do it again." 'Twas thus she spoke when the last kiss was given; unless there may have been one or two later in the evening, to which it is not necessary to allude here. But by the time of that last kiss in the summer-house Miss Fairstairs was the promised bride of Mr. Cheesacre.


But how was he to get down again among his friends? That consideration troubled Mr. Cheesacre as he rose from his happy seat after that last embrace. He had promised Charlie, and perhaps he would keep his promise, but it might be as well not to make it all too public at once. But Charlie wasn't going to be thrown over;--not if she knew it, as she said to herself. She returned therefore triumphantly among them all,--blushing indeed, and with her eyes turned away, and her hand now remained upon her lover's arm;--but still so close to him that there could be no mistake. "Goodness, gracious, Charlie! where have you and Mr. Cheesacre been?" said Mrs. Greenow. "We got up into the woods and lost ourselves," said Charlie. "Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Greenow.

However, Mr. Cheesacre was troubled as he rose from his happy seat after that last embrace. How would he tell his friends? He had promised Charlie, and perhaps he would keep his promise, but it might be as well not to make it all too public at once.
But Charlie wasn't going to be thrown over. She returned therefore triumphantly among them all, blushing indeed, and with her hand upon her lover's arm; but so close to him that there could be no mistake.
"Goodness, gracious, Charlie! where have you and Mr. Cheesacre been?" said Mrs. Greenow.
"We got up into the woods and lost ourselves," said Charlie.


It would be too long to tell now, in these last pages of our story, how Cheesacre strove to escape, and with what skill Mrs. Greenow kept him to his bargain. I hope that Charlie Fairstairs was duly grateful. Before that evening was over, under the comfortable influence of a glass of hot brandy-and-water,--the widow had, I think, herself mixed the second glass for Mr. Cheesacre, before the influence became sufficiently comfortable,--he was forced to own that he had made himself the happy possessor of Charlie Fairstairs' heart and hand. "And you are a lucky man," said the widow with enthusiasm; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. Don't let there be any delay now, because a good thing can't be done too soon." And indeed, before that night was over, Mrs. Greenow had the pair together in her own presence, and then fixed the day. "A fellow ought to be allowed to turn himself," Cheesacre said to her, pleading for himself in a whisper. But no; Mrs. Greenow would give him no such mercy. She knew to what a man turning himself might probably lead. She was a woman who was quite in earnest when she went to work, and I hope that Miss Fairstairs was grateful.

It would be too long to tell now, in these last pages of our story, how Cheesacre strove to escape, and with what skill Mrs. Greenow kept him to his bargain. Before that evening was over, under the comfortable influence of a glass of hot brandy-and-water, he was forced to confess that he had made himself the happy possessor of Charlie Fairstairs' heart and hand.
"And you are a lucky man," said the widow with enthusiasm; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. Don't let there be any delay now, because a good thing can't be done too soon." And indeed, before that night was over, Mrs. Greenow had fixed the day. She was a woman who was quite in earnest when she went to work, and I hope that Miss Fairstairs was grateful.


Then, in that presence, was in truth the last kiss given on that eventful evening. "Come, Charlie, be good-natured to him. He's as good as your own now," said the widow. And Charlie was good-natured. "It's to be as soon as ever we come back from our trip," said Mrs. Greenow to Kate, the next day, "and I'm lending her money to get all her things at once. He shall come to the scratch, though I go all the way to Norfolk by myself and fetch him by his ears. He shall come, as sure as my name's Greenow,--or Bellfield, as it will be then, you know."
"And I shouldn't wonder if she did have to go to Norfolk," said Kate to her cousin. That event, however, cannot be absolutely concluded in these pages. I can only say that, when I think of Mrs. Greenow's force of character and warmth of friendship, I feel that Miss Fairstairs' prospects stand on good ground.

Then, in her presence, the last kiss on that eventful evening was given.
"Come, Charlie, be good-natured to him. He's as good as your own now," said the widow. And Charlie was good-natured.
Mrs. Greenow said to Kate, the next day, "I'm lending her money to get all her things. He shall come to the scratch, if I have to go all the way to Norfolk and fetch him by his ears."
"And I shouldn't wonder if she did have to go to Norfolk," said Kate to her cousin.
I cannot relate that far. I can only say that, when I think of Mrs. Greenow's force of character and warmth of friendship, I feel that Miss Fairstairs' prospects are good.


Mrs. Greenow's own marriage was completed with perfect success. She took Captain Bellfield for better or for worse, with a thorough determination to make the best of his worst, and to put him on his legs, if any such putting might be possible. He, at any rate, had been in luck. If any possible stroke of fortune could do him good, he had found that stroke. He had found a wife who could forgive all his past offences,--and also, if necessary, some future offences; who had money enough for all his wants, and kindness enough to gratify them, and who had, moreover,--which for the Captain was the most important,--strength enough to keep from him the power of ruining them both. Reader, let us wish a happy married life to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield!
The day after the ceremony Alice Vavasor and Kate Vavasor started for Matching Priory.

Mrs. Greenow's own marriage was completed. She took Captain Bellfield for better or for worse, with a thorough determination to make the best of his worst. He was a lucky man. He had found a wife who could forgive all his past offences - and also, if necessary, some future ones; who had money enough for all his wants, and kindness enough to gratify them, and who had, most importantly, strength enough to keep him from ruining them both. Reader, let us wish a happy married life to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield!
The day after the ceremony Alice and Kate started for Matching Priory.


I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair.

Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation to pass his time. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne when the business of Parliament was over, for a little change of air, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way. But he had no passion for mountains and lakes. His mind was always in the House of Commons, or the Cabinet, and in the meetings of which he read from week to week.
He took short, solitary walks about the town, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his, so did he prophesy an absolute downfall from all political power as the result of his absence - having, in truth, no cause for such despair.


As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition.

He was barely thirty, and if he had been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might raise his value rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow him to make such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, he made her conscious that she had brought him to this miserable condition.


Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person.

Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which needs to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. But Mr. Palliser did not share her aspirations, and Lady Glencora soon lost her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick in a large one.
At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to make new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, because Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person.


They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment.

They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would purposely irritate her husband by her flippant tone, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much enjoyment at this time.


But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret.
"If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said.

But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent some excitement to their lives. They usually breakfasted at nine, and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after handing the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours.
"How I hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." At some moments, it seemed that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret.
"If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said.


"You are so hard," said Lady Glencora.
"So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while.
But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser.
"I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance.
"My name is John Grey," said the stranger.

"You are so hard," said Lady Glencora.
"So you say very often," Alice replied. "But hard or soft, I won't beg for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while.
But we must go back to the stranger. One day Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing by the front door of the hotel, wondering whether to walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser.
"I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously. But though he smiled and raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere.
"My name is John Grey," said the stranger.


Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together.
"Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river."
They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night.

Then the smile was dropped, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that he was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After exchanging a few words, the two men started off for a walk together.
They went through the town, and up the river, where they would not meet the ladies' carriage, and when Mr. Palliser returned, he was alone. The three dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles and left the sitting-room for the night.


"Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?"
Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly.

"Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying to say something. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this hotel, at this very moment?"
Alice knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though she had heard no word since that day on which he had told her that they would meet abroad.
"Who is it, Glencora?" she asked calmly.


"Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora.
"My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice.
"Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool."
Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said.

"Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora.
"My cousin Kate," said Alice.
"It is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you.


"Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?"
"Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come."

It is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, but I thought it best to save you from that. Who has come, do you suppose?"
"Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come."


"Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?"
"Well?" said Alice.

"Yes, he is in this house; or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora.
"Well?" said Alice.


"Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?"
"No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it."
"I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed."
"It would not have made much difference."

"Have you nothing to say?"
"I am quite aware of the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it."
"I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you before all the servants. I do indeed."
"It would not have made much difference."


"Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?"
"What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come."
"And you have never said a word about it."

"Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life - except your cousin Kate. Still waters run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?"
"What do you want me to say? He told me he would come."
"And you never said a word about it."


"He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away."
"Why;--why;--why would it be better?"
"Because his being here will do no good to any one."

"I thought it better not to. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better if he had stayed away."
"Why?"
"Because his being here will do no good to anyone."


"No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call."

"No good! Look here, Alice. If you do not make it up with him before tomorrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask, "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you tomorrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call."


"He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!"
"And may we ask him to dine with us?"
"Oh, yes."
"And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all."

"He may come if he pleases. I haven't quarrelled with him."
"And may we ask him to dine with us?"
"Oh, yes."
"In fact, he is to be regarded as an ordinary person. Well; good night. I don't understand you, that's all."