But this man let his gold go all together, and left it where his half-stretched rake deposited it by chance. Alice could not but look at his face. His eyes she could see were bloodshot, and his hair, when he pushed back his hat, was rough and dishevelled; but still there was that in his face which no woman could see and not regard. It was a face which at once prepossessed her in his favour,--as it had always prepossessed all others. On this occasion he had won his money, and Alice saw him drag it in as lazily as he had pushed it out.

Alice could see that his eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was rough and dishevelled; but his face was still one which no woman could see and not admire. On this occasion he won, and Alice saw him drag his money in as lazily as he had pushed it out.


"Do you see that little Frenchman?" said Lady Glencora. "He has just made half a napoleon, and has walked off with it. Isn't it interesting? I could stay here all the night." Then she turned round to whisper something to her husband, and Alice's eyes again fell on the face of the man at the other end of the table. After he had won his money, he had allowed the game to go on for a turn without any action on his part. The gold again went under his hand, and he lounged forward with his hat over his eyes. One of the croupiers had said a word, as though calling his attention to the game, but he had merely shaken his head. But when the fate of the next turn had been decided, he again roused himself, and on this occasion, as far as Alice could see, pushed his whole stock forward with the rake.

"Do you see that little Frenchman?" said Lady Glencora. "He has just made half a napoleon, and walked off with it. Isn't it interesting?" Then she turned round to whisper something to her husband, and Alice's eyes again fell on the face of the man at the other end of the table. After he had won his money, he had allowed the game to go on for a turn without taking part. But then he roused himself, and as far as Alice could see, pushed his whole stock forward with the rake - again


There was a little mass of gold, and, from his manner of placing it, all might see that he left its position to chance. One piece had got beyond its boundary, and the croupier pushed it back with some half-expressed inquiry as to his correctness. "All right," said a voice in English. Then Lady Glencora started and clutched Alice's arm with her hand. Mr. Palliser was explaining to Mr. Grey, behind them, something about German finance as connected with gambling-tables, and did not hear the voice, or see his wife's motion. I need hardly tell the reader that the gambler was Burgo Fitzgerald.

 leaving its position to chance. One piece had got beyond its boundary, and the croupier made some inquiry about it.
"All right," said a voice in English. Then Lady Glencora started and clutched Alice's arm. Mr. Palliser was explaining something about German finance to Mr. Grey, behind them, and did not hear the voice, or see his wife's reaction. I need hardly tell the reader that the gambler was Burgo Fitzgerald.


But Lady Glencora said not a word,--not as yet. She looked forward very gently, but still with eager eyes, till she could just see the face she knew so well. His hat was now pushed back, and his countenance had lost its listlessness. He watched narrowly the face of the man as he told out the amount of the cards as they were dealt. He did not try to hide his anxiety, and when, after the telling of some six or seven cards, he heard a certain number named, and a certain colour called, he made some exclamation which even Glencora could not hear. And then another croupier put down, close to Burgo's money, certain rolls of gold done up in paper, and also certain loose napoleons.
"Why doesn't he take it?" said Lady Glencora.
"He is taking it," said Alice, not at all knowing the cause of her cousin's anxiety.

But Lady Glencora said not a word. She looked forward very gently, but eagerly, till she could just see his face. He was watching the croupier anxiously as he dealt the cards. After a certain number and a certain colour was called, he made an exclamation. And then another croupier put down by him rolls of gold done up in paper, and also some loose napoleons.
"Why doesn't he take it?" said Lady Glencora.
"He is taking it," said Alice, not knowing the cause of her cousin's anxiety.


Burgo had paused a moment, and then prepared to rake the money to him; but as he did so, he changed his mind, and pushed it all back again,--now, on this occasion, being very careful to place it on its former spot. Both Alice and Glencora could see that a man at his elbow was dissuading him,--had even attempted to stop the arm which held the rake. But Burgo shook him off, speaking to him some word roughly, and then again he steadied the rolls upon their appointed place. The croupier who had paused for a moment now went on quickly with his cards, and in two minutes the fate of Burgo's wealth was decided. It was all drawn back by the croupier's unimpassioned rake, and the rolls of gold were restored to the tray from whence they had been taken.

Burgo had paused a moment, and then prepared to rake the money to him; but he changed his mind, and pushed it all back again, this time being very careful to place it on its former spot. Both Alice and Glencora could see that a man at his elbow was trying to dissuade him. But Burgo shook him off roughly. The croupier went on quickly with his cards, and in two minutes the fate of Burgo's wealth was decided. It was all drawn back by the croupier's unimpassioned rake.


Burgo looked up and smiled at them all round the table. By this time most of those who stood around were looking at him. He was a man who gathered eyes upon him wherever he might be, or whatever he was doing; and it had been clear that he was very intent upon his fortune, and on the last occasion the amount staked had been considerable. He knew that men and women were looking at him, and therefore he smiled faintly as he turned his eyes round the table. Then he got up, and, putting his hands in his trousers pockets, whistled as he walked away. His companion followed him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder; but Burgo shook him off, and would not turn round. He shook him off, and walked on whistling, the length of the whole salon.

Burgo looked up and smiled round the table. By this time most of those who stood around were looking at him, and he knew it. Therefore he smiled faintly before getting up, and, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, whistled as he walked away. His companion followed him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder; but Burgo shook him off, and walked on, whistling, the whole length of the salon.


"Alice," said Lady Glencora, "it is Burgo Fitzgerald." Mr. Palliser had gone so deep into that question of German finance that he had not at all noticed the gambler. "Alice, what can we do for him? It is Burgo," said Lady Glencora.
Many eyes were now watching him. Used as he was to the world and to misfortune, he was not successful in his attempt to bear his loss with a show of indifference. The motion of his head, the position of his hands, the tone of his whistling, all told the tale. Even the unimpassioned croupiers furtively cast an eye after him, and a very big Guard, in a cocked hat, and uniform, and sword, who hitherto had hardly been awake, seemed evidently to be interested by his movements. If there is to be a tragedy at these places,--and tragedies will sometimes occur,--it is always as well that the tragic scene should be as far removed as possible from the salons, in order that the public eye should not suffer.

"Alice," said Lady Glencora, "it is Burgo Fitzgerald." Mr. Palliser had noticed nothing. "Alice, what can we do for him? It is Burgo."
Many eyes were now watching him. He was not successful in his attempt to show indifference to his loss. His gait and his whistling told the tale. Even the unemotional croupiers furtively cast an eye after him, and a very big Guard seemed to be interested by his movements. If there is to be a tragedy at these places, it is always as well that the tragic scene should be as far removed as possible from the salons, away from the public eye.


Lady Glencora and Alice had left their places, and had shrunk back, almost behind a pillar. "Is it he, in truth?" Alice asked.
"In very truth," said Glencora. "What can I do? Can I do anything? Look at him, Alice. If he were to destroy himself, what should I do then?"

Lady Glencora and Alice had shrunk back behind a pillar.
"What can I do?" said Glencora. "Look at him, Alice. If he were to destroy himself, what should I do then?"


Burgo, conscious that he was the regarded of all eyes, turned round upon his heel and again walked the length of the salon. He knew well that he had not a franc left in his possession, but still he laughed and still he whistled. His companion, whoever he might be, had slunk away from him, not caring to share the notoriety which now attended him.
"What shall I do, Alice?" said Lady Glencora, with her eyes still fixed on him who had been her lover.
"Tell Mr. Palliser," whispered Alice.

Burgo, conscious of all eyes, turned round upon his heel and again walked the length of the salon, still whistling. His companion had slunk away from him.
"What shall I do, Alice?" said Lady Glencora, her eyes still fixed on him.
"Tell Mr. Palliser," whispered Alice.


Lady Glencora immediately ran up to her husband, and took him away from Mr. Grey. Rapidly she told her story,--with such rapidity that Mr. Palliser could hardly get in a word. "Do something for him;--do, do. Unless I know that something is done, I shall die. You needn't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," said Mr. Palliser.

Lady Glencora ran up to her husband, and took him away from Mr. Grey. She told her story so rapidly that Mr. Palliser could hardly get in a word. "Do something for him; do, do. Unless I know that something is done, I shall die. You needn't be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," said Mr. Palliser.


Lady Glencora, as she went on quickly, got hold of her husband's hand, and caressed it. "You are so good," said she. "Don't let him out of your sight. There; he is going. I will go home with Mr. Grey. I will be ever so good; I will, indeed. You know what he'll want, and for my sake you'll let him have it. But don't let him gamble. If you could only get him home to England, and then do something. You owe him something, Plantagenet; do you not?"

Lady Glencora took her husband's hand, and caressed it. "You are so good," said she. "Don't let him out of your sight. There; he is going. I will go home with Mr. Grey. I will be ever so good; I will, indeed. You know what he'll want, and for my sake you'll let him have it. But don't let him gamble. If you could only get him home to England. You owe him something, Plantagenet; do you not?"


"If money can do anything, he shall have it."
"God bless you, dearest! I shall never see him again; but if you could save him! There;--he is going now. Go;--go." She pushed him forward, and then retreating, put her arm within Mr. Grey's, still keeping her eye upon her husband.

"If money can do anything, he shall have it."
"God bless you, dearest! I shall never see him again; but if you could save him! There - he is going now." She pushed him forward, and then retreating, put her arm within Mr. Grey's.


Burgo, when he first got to the door leading out of the salon, had paused a moment, and, turning round, had encountered the big gendarme close to him. "Well, old Buffer, what do you want?" said he, accosting the man in English. The big gendarme simply walked on through the door, and said nothing. Then Burgo also passed out, and Mr. Palliser quickly went after him. They were now in the large front salon, from whence the chief door of the building opened out upon the steps. Through this door Burgo went without pausing, and Mr. Palliser went after him. They both walked to the end of the row of buildings, and then Burgo, leaving the broad way, turned into a little path which led up through the trees to the hills. That hillside among the trees is a popular resort at Baden, during the day; but now, at nine in the evening, it was deserted. Palliser did not press on the other man, but followed him, and did not accost Burgo till he had thrown himself on the grass beneath a tree.

Burgo, at the door leading out of the salon, had paused a moment, and had encountered the big Guard close to him.
"Well, old Buffer, what do you want?" said he. The Guard simply walked on through the door, and said nothing. Then Burgo also walked out, and Mr. Palliser quickly went after him.
They were now in the large front salon, from where the main door of the building opened
out upon the steps. Through this door Burgo went, and Mr. Palliser followed. They both walked to the end of the street, and then Burgo turned into a little path which led up through the trees to the hills. That hillside among the trees is a popular resort at Baden, but now, at nine in the evening, it was deserted. Palliser followed Burgo till he threw himself on the grass beneath a tree.


"You are in trouble, I fear, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Palliser, as soon as he was close at Burgo's feet.
"We will go home. Mr. Palliser has something to do," said Lady Glencora to Mr. Grey, as soon as the two men had disappeared from her sight.
"Is that a friend of Mr. Palliser?" said Mr. Grey.

"You are in trouble, I fear, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Palliser, as soon as he drew close.
"We will go home. Mr. Palliser has something to do," said Lady Glencora to Mr. Grey, after the two men had disappeared from her sight.
"Is that a friend of Mr. Palliser?" said Mr. Grey.


"Yes;--that is, he knows him, and is interested about him. Alice, shall we go home? Oh! Mr. Grey, you must not ask any questions. He,--Mr. Palliser, will tell you everything when he sees you,--that is, if there is anything to be told." Then they all went home, and soon separated for the night. "Of course I shall sit up for him," said Lady Glencora to Alice, "but I will do it in my own room. You can tell Mr. Grey, if you like." But Alice told nothing to Mr. Grey, nor did Mr. Grey ask any questions.

"Yes; that is, he knows him. Alice, shall we go home? Oh! Mr. Grey, you must not ask any questions. Mr. Palliser will tell you everything when he sees you - if there is anything to tell."
Then they all went home, and soon separated for the night.
"Of course I shall sit up for him," said Lady Glencora to Alice, "but in my own room. You can tell Mr. Grey, if you like."
But Alice told nothing to Mr. Grey, nor did Mr. Grey ask any questions.


Alice found herself seated near to Lady Glencora's end of the table, and, in spite of her resolution to like Mr. Palliser, she was not sorry that such an arrangement had been made. Mr. Palliser had taken the Duchess out to dinner, and Alice wished to be as far removed as possible from her Grace. She found herself seated between her bespoken friend Jeffrey Palliser and the Duke, and as soon as she was seated Lady Glencora introduced her to her second neighbour. "My cousin, Duke," Lady Glencora said, "and a terrible Radical."
"Oh, indeed; I'm glad of that. We're sadly in want of a few leading Radicals, and perhaps I may be able to gain one now."
Alice thought of her cousin George, and wished that he, instead of herself, was sitting next to the Duke of St. Bungay. "But I'm afraid I never shall be a leading Radical," she said.
"You shall lead me at any rate, if you will," said he.
"As the little dogs lead the blind men," said Lady Glencora.

Alice found herself seated near Lady Glencora's end of the table, between Jeffrey Palliser and the Duke of St. Bungay, to whom Lady Glencora introduced her.
"My cousin, Duke," Lady Glencora said, "and a terrible Radical."
"Oh, indeed; I'm glad of that. We're sadly in want of a few leading Radicals."
Alice thought of her cousin George, and wished that he was sitting in her place. "But I'm afraid I never shall be a leading Radical," she said.
"You may lead me at any rate," said he.
"As little dogs lead blind men," said Lady Glencora.


"No, Lady Glencora, not so. But as the pretty women lead the men who have eyes in their head. There is nothing I want so much, Miss Vavasor, as to become a Radical;--if I only knew how."
"I think it's very easy to know how," said Alice.
"Do you? I don't. I've voted for every liberal measure that has come seriously before Parliament since I had a seat in either House, and I've not been able to get beyond Whiggery yet."
"Have you voted for the ballot?" asked Alice, almost trembling at her own audacity as she put the question.

"No, Lady Glencora, as the pretty women lead the men who have eyes in their head. There is nothing I want so much, Miss Vavasor, as to become a Radical; if I only knew how."
"I think it's very easy to know how," said Alice.
"Do you? I don't. I've voted for every serious liberal measure that has come before Parliament since I had a seat in either House, and I've not been able to get beyond Whiggery yet."
"Have you voted for the secret ballot?" asked Alice, almost trembling at her own audacity.


"Well; no, I've not. And I suppose that is the crux. But the ballot has never been seriously brought before any House in which I have sat. I hate it with so keen a private hatred, that I doubt whether I could vote for it."
"But the Radicals love it," said Alice.
"Palliser," said the Duke, speaking loudly from his end of the table, "I'm told you can never be entitled to call yourself a Radical till you've voted for the ballot."
"I don't want to be called a Radical," said Mr. Palliser,--"or to be called anything at all."
"Except Chancellor of the Exchequer," said Lady Glencora in a low voice.

"Well; no, I've not. And I suppose that is the crux. But I hate it with so keen a private hatred, that I doubt whether I could vote for it."
"But the Radicals love it," said Alice.
"Palliser," said the Duke, speaking loudly down the table, "I'm told you can never call yourself a Radical till you've voted for the ballot."
"I don't want to be called a Radical," said Mr. Palliser, "or to be called anything at all."
"Except Chancellor of the Exchequer," said Lady Glencora in a low voice.


"And that's about the finest ambition by which a man can be moved," said the Duke. "The man who can manage the purse-strings of this country can manage anything." Then that conversation dropped and the Duke ate his dinner.
"I was especially commissioned to amuse you," said Mr. Jeffrey Palliser to Alice. "But when I undertook the task I had no conception that you would be calling Cabinet Ministers over the coals about their politics."
"I did nothing of the kind, surely, Mr. Palliser. I suppose all Radicals do vote for the ballot, and that's why I said it."
"Your definition was perfectly just, I dare say, only--"
"Only what?"

"And that's about the finest ambition a man can have," said the Duke. "The man who can manage the purse-strings of this country can manage anything." Then the Duke ate his dinner.
"When I undertook to amuse you," said Mr. Jeffrey Palliser to Alice, "I had no idea that you would be hauling Cabinet Ministers over the coals about their politics."
"I did nothing of the kind, surely, Mr. Palliser. I suppose all Radicals do vote for the ballot, and that's why I said it."
"You are quite right.


"Lady Glencora need not have been so anxious to provide specially for your amusement. Not but what I'm very much obliged to her,--of course. But Miss Vavasor, unfortunately I'm not a politician. I haven't a chance of a seat in the House, and so I despise politics."
"Women are not allowed to be politicians in this country."
"Thank God, they can't do much in that way;--not directly, I mean. Only think where we should be if we had a feminine House of Commons, with feminine debates, carried on, of course, with feminine courtesy. My cousins Iphy and Phemy there would of course be members. You don't know them yet?"

But unfortunately I'm not a politician. I haven't a chance of a seat in the House, and so I despise politics."
"Women are not allowed to be politicians in this country."
"Thank God; only think where we should be if we had a feminine House of Commons, with feminine debates, carried on with feminine courtesy. My cousins Iphy and Phemy there would of course be members. You don't know them yet?"


"No; not yet. Are they politicians?"
"Not especially. They have their tendencies, which are decidedly liberal. There has never been a Tory Palliser known, you know. But they are too clever to give themselves up to anything in which they can do nothing. Being women they live a depressed life, devoting themselves to literature, fine arts, social economy, and the abstract sciences. They write wonderful letters; but I believe their correspondence lists are quite full, so that you have no chance at present of getting on either of them."
"I haven't the slightest pretension to ask for such an honour."

"No; not yet."
"They have decidedly liberal tendencies. There has never been a Tory Palliser, you know. But they are too clever to give themselves up to anything in which they can do nothing. Being women they live a depressed life, devoting themselves to literature, fine arts, social economy, and the abstract sciences. They write wonderful letters; but I believe their correspondence lists are quite full, so that you have no chance of getting on either of them."
"I haven't the slightest pretension to ask for such an honour."


"Oh! if you mean because you don't know them, that has nothing to do with it."
"But I have no claim either private or public."
"That has nothing to do with it either. They don't at all seek people of note as their correspondents. Free communication with all the world is their motto, and Rowland Hill is the god they worship. Only they have been forced to guard themselves against too great an accession of paper and ink. Are you fond of writing letters, Miss Vavasor?"
"Yes, to my friends; but I like getting them better."

"Oh! You don't need to know them. Free communication with all the world is their motto. Are you fond of writing letters, Miss Vavasor?"
"Yes, to my friends; but I like getting letters better."


"I shrewdly suspect they don't read half what they get. Is it possible any one should go through two sheets of paper filled by our friend the Duchess there? No; their delight is in writing. They sit each at her desk after breakfast, and go on till lunch. There is a little rivalry between them, not expressed to each other, but visible to their friends. Iphy certainly does get off the greater number, and I'm told crosses quite as often as Phemy, but then she has the advantage of a bolder and larger hand."
"Do they write to you?"

"I suspect they don't read half what they get. Could anyone get through two sheets of paper filled by our friend the Duchess there? No; their delight is in writing, every morning. There is a little rivalry between them. Iphy certainly does send off more."
"Do they write to you?"


"Oh, dear no. I don't think they ever write to any relative. They don't discuss family affairs and such topics as that. Architecture goes a long way with them, and whether women ought to be clerks in public offices. Iphy has certain American correspondents that take up much of her time, but she acknowledges she does not read their letters."
"Then I certainly shall not write to her."
"But you are not American, I hope. I do hate the Americans. It's the only strong political feeling I have. I went there once, and found I couldn't live with them on any terms."

"Oh, dear no. I don't think they ever write to any relative. They don't discuss family affairs and such topics as that. Iphy has certain American correspondents, but she acknowledges she does not read their letters."
"Then I certainly shall not write to her."
"But you are not American, I hope. I do hate the Americans. It's the only strong political feeling I have. I went there once, and found I couldn't live with them."


"But they please themselves. I don't see they are to be hated because they don't live after our fashion."
"Oh; it's jealousy of course. I know that. I didn't come across a cab-driver who wasn't a much better educated man than I am. And as for their women, they know everything. But I hated them, and I intend to hate them. You haven't been there?"
"Oh no."

"I don't see they are to be hated because they don't live after our fashion."
"Oh; it's jealousy of course. I know that. I didn't come across a cab-driver there who wasn't better educated than I am. And as for their women, they know everything. But I intend to hate them. You haven't been there?"
"Oh no."


"Then I will make bold to say that any English lady who spent a month with them and didn't hate them would have very singular tastes. I begin to think they'll eat each other up, and then there'll come an entirely new set of people of a different sort. I always regarded the States as a Sodom and Gomorrah, prospering in wickedness, on which fire and brimstone were sure to fall sooner or later."
"I think that's wicked."
"I am wicked, as Topsy used to say. Do you hunt?"
"No."
"Do you shoot?"
"Shoot! What; with a gun?"

"Then I will make bold to say that any English lady who spent a month with them and didn't hate them would have very singular tastes. Do you hunt?"
"No."
"Do you shoot?"
"Shoot!


"Yes. I was staying in a house last week with a lady who shot a good deal."
"No; I don't shoot."
"Do you ride?"
"No; I wish I did. I have never ridden because I've no one to ride with me."
"Do you drive?"
"No; I don't drive either."
"Then what do you do?"
"I sit at home, and--"

No; I don't shoot."
"Do you ride?"
"No; I wish I did."
"Do you drive?"
"No; I don't drive either."
"Then what do you do?"
"I sit at home, and-"


"Mend your stockings?"
"No; I don't do that, because it's disagreeable; but I do work a good deal. Sometimes I have amused myself by reading."
"Ah; they never do that here. I have heard that there is a library, but the clue to it has been lost, and nobody now knows the way. I don't believe in libraries. Nobody ever goes into a library to read, any more than you would into a larder to eat. But there is this difference;--the food you consume does come out of the larders, but the books you read never come out of the libraries."
"Except Mudie's," said Alice.

"Mend your stockings?"
"No; I don't do that, but I do needlework a good deal. Sometimes I have amused myself by reading."
"Ah; they never do that here. I have heard that there is a library, but the clue to it has been lost, and nobody now knows the way. I don't believe in libraries.


"Ah, yes; he is the great librarian. And you mean to read all the time you are here, Miss Vavasor?"
"I mean to walk about the priory ruins sometimes."
"Then you must go by moonlight, and I'll go with you. Only isn't it rather late in the year for that?"
"I should think it is,--for you, Mr. Palliser."

Do you mean to read all the time you are here, Miss Vavasor?"
"I mean to walk about the priory ruins sometimes."
"Then you must go by moonlight, and I'll go with you. Only isn't it rather late in the year for that?"
"I should think it is for you, Mr. Palliser."


Then the Duke spoke to her again, and she found that she got on very well during dinner. But she could not but feel angry with herself in that she had any fear on the subject;--and yet she could not divest herself of that fear. She acknowledged to herself that she was conscious of a certain inferiority to Lady Glencora and to Mr. Jeffrey Palliser, which almost made her unhappy. As regarded the Duke on the other side of her, she had no such feeling. He was old enough to be her father, and was a Cabinet Minister; therefore he was entitled to her reverence. But how was it that she could not help accepting the other people round her as being indeed superior to herself? Was she really learning to believe that she could grow upwards by their sunlight?
"Jeffrey is a pleasant fellow, is he not?" said Lady Glencora to her as they passed back through the billiard-room to the drawing-room.
"Very pleasant;--a little sarcastic, perhaps."

Then the Duke spoke to her again, and she found that she got on very well during dinner. She could not help feel angry with herself for having any fear about it; and yet she could not dismiss that fear. She was conscious of a certain inferiority to Lady Glencora and Mr. Jeffrey Palliser, which almost made her unhappy. As regarded the Duke, she had no such feeling. He was old enough to be her father, and was a Cabinet Minister; therefore he was entitled to her reverence. But why did she accept that the people round her were indeed superior to herself? Was she really learning to believe that she could grow upwards by their sunlight?
"Jeffrey is a pleasant fellow, is he not?" said Lady Glencora to her as they went to the drawing-room.
"Very pleasant; a little sarcastic, perhaps."


"I should think you would soon find yourself able to get the better of that if he tries it upon you," said Lady Glencora; and then the ladies were all in the drawing-room together.
"It is quite deliciously warm, coming from one room to another," said the Duchess, putting her emphasis on the "one" and the "other."
"Then we had better keep continually moving," said a certain Mrs. Conway Sparkes, a literary lady, who had been very handsome, who was still very clever, who was not perhaps very good-natured, and of whom the Duchess of St. Bungay was rather afraid.
"I hope we may be warm here too," said Lady Glencora.
"But not deliciously warm," said Mrs. Conway Sparkes.
"It makes me tremble in every limb when Mrs. Sparkes attacks her," Lady Glencora said to Alice in Alice's own room that night, "for I know she'll tell the Duke; and he'll tell that tall man with red hair whom you see standing about, and the tall man with red hair will tell Mr. Palliser, and then I shall catch it."
"And who is the tall man with red hair?"
"He's a political link between the Duke and Mr. Palliser. His name is Bott, and he's a Member of Parliament."
"But why should he interfere?"

"I think you would be able to get the better of that if he tries it on you," said Lady Glencora; and then the ladies were in the drawing-room.
"It is quite deliciously warm in the corridor," said the Duchess.
"Then we had better keep moving," said a certain Mrs. Conway Sparkes, a very clever literary lady, of whom the Duchess of St. Bungay was rather afraid.
"I hope we may be warm here too," said Lady Glencora.
"But not deliciously warm," said Mrs. Conway Sparkes.
"It makes me tremble in every limb when Mrs. Sparkes attacks the Duchess," Lady Glencora said to Alice in Alice's room that night, "for I know she'll tell the Duke; and he'll tell that tall man with red hair whom you see standing about, and he will tell Mr. Palliser, and then I shall catch it."
"And who is the tall man with red hair?"
"He's a political link between the Duke and Mr. Palliser. His name is Bott, and he's a Member of Parliament."
"But why should he interfere?"


"I suppose it's his business. I don't quite understand all the ins and outs of it. I believe he's to be one of Mr. Palliser's private secretaries if he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer. Perhaps he doesn't tell;--only I think he does all the same. He always calls me Lady Glen-cowrer. He comes out of Lancashire, and made calico as long as he could get any cotton." But this happened in the bedroom, and we must go back for a while to the drawing-room.

"I suppose it's his business. I believe he's to be one of Mr. Palliser's private secretaries if he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer. Perhaps he doesn't tell; only I think he does. He always calls me Lady Glen-cowrer. He comes from Lancashire, and used to make calico." But this happened in the bedroom, and we must go back for a while to the drawing-room.


The Duchess had made no answer to Mrs. Sparkes, and so nothing further was said about the warmth. Nor, indeed, was there any conversation that was comfortably general. The number of ladies in the room was too great for that, and ladies do not divide themselves nicely into small parties, as men and women do when they are mixed. Lady Glencora behaved pretty by telling the Duchess all about her pet pheasants; Mrs. Conway Sparkes told ill-natured tales of some one to Miss Euphemia Palliser; one of the Duchess's daughters walked off to a distant piano with an admiring friend and touched a few notes; while Iphigenia Palliser boldly took up a book, and placed herself at a table. Alice, who was sitting opposite to Lady Glencora, began to speculate whether she might do the same; but her courage failed her, and she sat on, telling herself that she was out of her element. "Alice Vavasor," said Lady Glencora after a while, suddenly, and in a somewhat loud voice, "can you play billiards?"
"No," said Alice, rather startled.
"Then you shall learn to-night, and if nobody else will teach you, you shall be my pupil." Whereupon Lady Glencora rang the bell and ordered that the billiard-table might be got ready. "You'll play, Duchess, of course," said Lady Glencora.

There was no general conversation. The number of ladies in the room was too great for that. Lady Glencora behaved prettily, telling the Duchess all about her pet pheasants; Mrs. Conway Sparkes told ill-natured tales of someone to Miss Euphemia Palliser; one of the Duchess's daughters walked off to a distant piano with a friend and touched a few notes; while Iphigenia Palliser boldly took up a book, and placed herself at a table.
Alice speculated whether she might do the same, but her courage failed her, and she sat on, feeling out of her element.
"Alice Vavasor," said Lady Glencora after a while, suddenly and loudly, "can you play billiards?"
"No," said Alice, rather startled.
"Then you shall learn tonight." Whereupon Lady Glencora rang the bell and ordered that the billiard-table might be got ready. "You'll play, Duchess, of course," she said.


"It is so nice and warm, that I think I will," said the Duchess; but as she spoke she looked suspiciously to that part of the room where Mrs. Conway Sparkes was sitting.
"Let us all play," said Mrs. Conway Sparkes, "and then it will be nicer,--and perhaps warmer, too."
The gentlemen joined them just as they were settling themselves round the table, and as many of them stayed there, the billiard-room became full. Alice had first a cue put into her hand, and making nothing of that was permitted to play with a mace. The duty of instructing her devolved on Jeffrey Palliser, and the next hour passed pleasantly;--not so pleasantly, she thought afterwards, as did some of those hours in Switzerland when her cousins were with her. After all, she could get more out of her life with such associates as them, than she could with any of these people at Matching. She felt quite sure of that;--though Jeffrey Palliser did take great trouble to teach her the game, and once or twice made her laugh heartily by quizzing the Duchess's attitude as she stood up to make her stroke.
"I wish I could play billiards," said Mrs. Sparkes, on one of these occasions; "I do indeed."
"I thought you said you were coming to play," said the Duchess, almost majestically, and with a tone of triumph evidently produced by her own successes.
"Only to see your Grace," said Mrs. Sparkes.

"It is so nice and warm, that I think I will," said the Duchess; but as she spoke she looked suspiciously at Mrs. Conway Sparkes.
"Let us all play," said Mrs. Conway Sparkes, "and then it will be nicer - and perhaps warmer, too."
The gentlemen joined them as they were settling themselves round the table, and as many of them stayed, the billiard-room became full. The duty of instructing Alice fell to Jeffrey Palliser, and the next hour passed pleasantly; though not so pleasantly as some of those hours in Switzerland with her cousins. However, Jeffrey Palliser took great trouble to teach her, and once or twice made her laugh by quizzing the Duchess's attitude as she stood up to make her stroke.
"I wish I could play billiards," said Mrs. Sparkes.
"I thought you said you were coming to play," said the Duchess, with a tone of triumph at her own successes.
"Only to see your Grace," said Mrs. Sparkes.


"I don't know that there is anything more to see in me than in anybody else," said the Duchess. "Mr. Palliser, that was a cannon. Will you mark that for our side?"
[Illustration: "Mr. Palliser, that was a cannon."]
"Oh no, Duchess, you hit the same ball twice."

"I don't know that there is anything to see," said the Duchess. "Mr. Palliser, that was a cannon. Will you mark that for our side?"
"Oh no, Duchess, you hit the same ball twice."


"Very well;--then I suppose Miss Vavasor plays now. That was a miss. Will you mark that, if you please?" This latter demand was made with great stress, as though she had been defrauded in the matter of the cannon, and was obeyed. Before long, the Duchess, with her partner, Lady Glencora, won the game,--which fact, however, was, I think, owing rather to Alice's ignorance than to her Grace's skill. The Duchess, however, was very triumphant, and made her way back into the drawing-room with a step which seemed to declare loudly that she had trumped Mrs. Sparkes at last.

"Very well; then I suppose Miss Vavasor plays now. Will you mark a miss, if you please?" Before long, the Duchess, with her partner, Lady Glencora, won the game, and made her way back into the drawing-room with a step which seemed to declare that she had trumped Mrs. Sparkes at last.


Not long after this the ladies went up-stairs on their way to bed. Many of them, perhaps, did not go to their pillows at once, as it was as yet not eleven o'clock, and it was past ten when they all came down to breakfast. At any rate, Alice, who had been up at seven, did not go to bed then, nor for the next two hours. "I'll come into your room just for one minute," Lady Glencora said as she passed on from the door to her own room; and in about five minutes she was back with her cousin. "Would you mind going into my room--it's just there, and sitting with Ellen for a minute?" This Lady Glencora said in the sweetest possible tone to the girl who was waiting on Alice; and then, when they were alone together, she got into a little chair by the fireside and prepared herself for conversation.
"I must keep you up for a quarter of an hour while I tell you something. But first of all, how do you like the people? Will you be able to be comfortable with them?" Alice of course said that she thought she would; and then there came that little discussion in which the duties of Mr. Bott, the man with the red hair, were described.

Not long after this the ladies went upstairs to bed.
"I'll come into your room just for one minute," Lady Glencora said to Alice; and having dismissed the maid, she sat down by the fireside.
"I must keep you up for a quarter of an hour while I tell you something," she said. "But first of all, how do you like the people? Will you be comfortable with them?"
Alice of course said that she thought she would; and then there came that little discussion about Mr. Bott, the man with the red hair.


"But I've got something to tell you," said Lady Glencora, when they had already been there some twenty minutes. "Sit down opposite to me, and look at the fire while I look at you."
"Is it anything terrible?"
"It's nothing wrong."
"Oh, Lady Glencora, if it's--"
"I won't have you call me Lady Glencora. Don't I call you Alice? Why are you so unkind to me? I have not come to you now asking you to do for me anything that you ought not to do."

"But I've got something to tell you," said Lady Glencora. "Look at the fire while I say it."
"Is it anything terrible?"
"It's nothing wrong."
"Oh, Lady Glencora, if it's-"
"Don't call me Lady Glencora. Don't I call you Alice? Why are you so unkind? I am not asking you to do anything that you ought not to do."


"But you are going to tell me something." Alice felt sure that the thing to be told would have some reference to Mr. Fitzgerald, and she did not wish to hear Mr. Fitzgerald's name from her cousin's lips.
"Tell you something;--of course I am. I'm going to tell you that,--that in writing to you the other day I wrote a fib. But it wasn't that I wished to deceive you;--only I couldn't say it all in a letter."
"Say all what?"
"You know I confessed that I had been very bad in not coming to you in London last year."
"I never thought of it for a moment."

"But you are going to tell me something." Alice felt sure that it would be about Mr. Fitzgerald.
"Of course I am. I'm going to tell you that in writing to you the other day I wrote a fib. It wasn't that I wished to deceive you; only I couldn't say it all in a letter."
"Say all what?"
"I confessed that I had been very bad in not coming to you in London last year."
"I never thought of it for a moment."


"You did not care whether I came or not: was that it? But never mind. Why should you have cared? But I cared. I told you in my letter that I didn't come because I had so many things on hand. Of course that was a fib."
"Everybody makes excuses of that kind," said Alice.

"You did not care whether I came or not? But never mind. Why should you have cared? But I cared.


"But they don't make them to the very people of all others whom they want to know and love. I was longing to come to you every day. But I feared I could not come without speaking of him;--and I had determined never to speak of him again." This she said in that peculiar low voice which she assumed at times.
"Then why do it now, Lady Glencora?"

I was longing to come to you every day. But I feared I could not come without speaking of him; - and I had determined never to speak of him again." This she said in a peculiar low voice.
"Then why do it now, Lady Glencora?"


"I won't be called Lady Glencora. Call me Cora. I had a sister once, older than I, and she used to call me Cora. If she had lived--. But never mind that now. She didn't live. I'll tell you why I do it now. Because I cannot help it. Besides, I've met him. I've been in the same room with him, and have spoken to him.

"Call me Cora. I had an older sister once, and she used to call me Cora. If she had lived- But never mind. She didn't live. I'll tell you why I do it now. Because I cannot help it. Besides, I've met him. I've been in the same room with him, and have spoken to him."


What's the good of any such resolution now?"
"And you have met him?"
"Yes; he--Mr. Palliser--knew all about it. When he talked of taking me to the house, I whispered to him that I thought Burgo would be there."
"Do not call him by his Christian name," said Alice, almost with a shudder.
"Why not?--why not his Christian name? I did when I told my husband. Or perhaps I said Burgo Fitzgerald."
"Well."

"You have met him?"
"Yes; Mr. Palliser knew all about it. When he talked of taking me to the house, I whispered to him that I thought Burgo would be there."
"Do not call him by his Christian name," said Alice, almost with a shudder.
"Why not? I did when I told my husband. Or perhaps I said Burgo Fitzgerald."
"Well."


"And he bade me go. He said it didn't signify, and that I had better learn to bear it. Bear it, indeed! If I am to meet him, and speak to him, and look at him, surely I may mention his name." And then she paused for an answer. "May I not?"
"What am I to say?" exclaimed Alice.

"And he bade me go. He said it didn't signify, and that I had better learn to bear it. Bear it, indeed! If I am to meet him, and speak to him, and look at him, surely I may mention his name?"
"What am I to say?" exclaimed Alice.


"Anything you please, that's not a falsehood. But I've got you here because I don't think you will tell a falsehood. Oh, Alice, I do so want to go right, and it is so hard!"
Hard, indeed, poor creature, for one so weighted as she had been, and sent out into the world with so small advantages of previous training or of present friendship! Alice began to feel now that she had been enticed to Matching Priory because her cousin wanted a friend, and of course she could not refuse to give the friendship that was asked from her. She got up from her chair, and kneeling down at the other's feet put up her face and kissed her.

"Anything you please, that's not a falsehood. But I don't think you will tell a falsehood. Oh, Alice, I do so want to go right, and it is so hard!"
Hard, indeed, poor creature, for one so weighted as she had been, and sent out into the world with so little in the way of training or friendship! Alice began to feel now that she had been enticed to Matching Priory because her cousin wanted a friend. She got up from her chair, and kneeling down at the other's feet she kissed her.


"I knew you would be good to me," said Lady Glencora. "I knew you would. And you may say whatever you like. But I could not bear that you should not know the real reason why I neither came to you nor sent for you after we went to London. You'll come to me now; won't you, dear?"
"Yes;--and you'll come to me," said Alice, making in her mind a sort of bargain that she was not to be received into Mr. Palliser's house after the fashion in which Lady Midlothian had proposed to receive her. But it struck her at once that this was unworthy of her, and ungenerous. "But I'll come to you," she added, "whether you come to me or not."

"I knew you would be good to me," said Lady Glencora. "And you may say whatever you like. But I could not bear that you should not know the real reason why I did not visit you or send for you in London. You'll come to me now; won't you, dear?"
"Yes; and you'll come to me," said Alice.


"I will go to you," said Lady Glencora, "of course,--why shouldn't I? But you know what I mean. We shall have dinners and parties and lots of people."
"And we shall have none," said Alice, smiling.

"I will," said Lady Glencora. "We shall have dinners and parties and lots of people."
"And we shall have none," said Alice, smiling.


"And therefore there is so much more excuse for your coming to me;--or rather I mean so much more reason, for I don't want excuses. Well, dear, I'm so glad I've told you. I was afraid to see you in London. I should hardly have known how to look at you then. But I've got over that now." Then she smiled and returned the kiss which Alice had given her. It was singular to see her standing on the bedroom rug with all her magnificence of dress, but with her hair pushed back behind her ears, and her eyes red with tears,--as though the burden of the magnificence remained to her after its purpose was over.

"And therefore there is so much more reason for your coming to me. Well, dear, I'm so glad I've told you." Then she smiled and returned Alice's kiss. It was singular to see her standing on the bedroom rug in her magnificent dress, but with her hair pushed back behind her ears and her eyes red with tears, as though the burden of the magnificence remained to her after its purpose was over.


"I declare it's ever so much past twelve. Good night, now, dear. I wonder whether he's come up. But I should have heard his step if he had. He never treads lightly. He seldom gives over work till after one, and sometimes goes on till three. It's the only thing he likes, I believe. God bless you! good night. I've such a deal more to say to you; and Alice, you must tell me something about yourself, too; won't you, dear?"

"I declare it's long past twelve. Good night, dear. I wonder whether he's come up. But I would have heard his step. He seldom finishes work till after one, and sometimes goes on till three. It's the only thing he likes, I believe. God bless you! good night. I've such a lot more to say to you; and Alice, you must tell me something about yourself, too; won't you, dear?"


Then without waiting for an answer Lady Glencora went, leaving Alice in a maze of bewilderment. She could hardly believe that all she had heard, and all she had done, had happened since she left Queen Anne Street that morning.

Then without waiting for an answer Lady Glencora went, leaving Alice in a maze of bewilderment. She could hardly believe all she had heard and done since she left Queen Anne Street that morning.


Mr. Grey's answer to Alice Vavasor's letter, which was duly sent by return of post and duly received on the morning after Lady Macleod's visit, may perhaps be taken as giving a sample of his worthiness. It was dated from Nethercoats, a small country-house in Cambridgeshire which belonged to him, at which he already spent much of his time, and at which he intended to live altogether after his marriage.
Nethercoats, June, 186--.
DEAREST ALICE,

Alice received Mr. Grey's answer to her letter the next morning. It was written at Nethercoats, his small country-house in Cambridgeshire, where he spent much of his time, and intended to live after his marriage.
Dearest Alice,


I am glad you have settled your affairs,--foreign affairs, I mean,--so much to your mind. As to your home affairs they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am a party interested in the latter my opinion may perhaps have an undue bias. Touching the tour, I quite agree with you that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory, that of women being able to get along without men as well as with them; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first put it in practice. Gloved hands, petticoats, feminine softness, and the general homage paid to beauty, all stand in the way of success. These things may perhaps some day be got rid of, and possibly with advantage; but while young ladies are still encumbered with them a male companion will always be found to be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, had my going been upon the cards. Were you in danger of meeting Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more serviceable in liberating you from the dungeons of oppressors, or even from stray tigers in the Swiss forests.

I am glad you have settled your foreign affairs so much to your liking. As for your home affairs, they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am involved in them, I may be biased.
About the tour, I quite agree that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory that women can get along without men just as well; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first try it, and a male companion will be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, if it were possible. If you should meet Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more useful in rescuing you from dungeons, or from any stray tigers in the Swiss forests.


But I doubt his being punctual with the luggage. He will want you or Kate to keep the accounts, if any are kept. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at the railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I hold that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them, or they will not fully enjoy themselves. He should simply be an upper servant, with the privilege of sitting at the same table with his mistresses. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the place; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr. Vavasor to obedience.

But I doubt if he will be punctual with the luggage. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I believe that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the position; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr. Vavasor to obedience.


As to the home affairs I have very little to say here,--in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And I always feel in town that I've too much to do to allow of my doing anything. If it were sheer idleness I could enjoy it, but it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which not only never comes, but which never even begins to come. I will, however, undergo a week of it,--say the last seven days of this month, and shall trust to you to recompense me by as much of yourself as your town doings will permit.

As to the home affairs, I have very little to say in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And in town it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which never comes. I will come for the last week of this month, and hope to see as much of you as your town doings will permit.


And now again as to those home affairs. If I say nothing now I believe you will understand why I refrain. You have cunningly just left me to imply, from what you say, that all my arguments have been of no avail; but you do not answer them, or even tell me that you have decided. I shall therefore imply nothing, and still trust to my personal eloquence for success. Or rather not trust,--not trust, but hope.
The garden is going on very well. We are rather short of water, and therefore not quite as bright as I had hoped; but we are preparing with untiring industry for future brightness. Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress did intend that." God bless the mistress is what I now say, and send her home, to her own home, to her flowers, and her fruit, and her house, and her husband, as soon as may be, with no more of these delays which are to me so grievous, and which seem to me to be so unnecessary. That is my prayer.

About those home affairs: I believe you will understand why I saying nothing now. Perhaps all my arguments have been of no use; but as you do not answer them, I shall still trust to my eloquence in person for success.
The garden is going on very well. Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress intended that." God bless the mistress is what I now say, and send her home, to her flowers, and her house, and her husband, as soon as may be, with no more of these delays which are to me so grievous, and which seem to me to be so unnecessary. That is my prayer.


Yours ever and always,
J. G.
"I didn't give commands," Alice said to herself, as she sat with the letter at her solitary breakfast-table. "He asked me how I liked the things, and of course I was obliged to say. I was obliged to seem to care, even if I didn't care." Such were her first thoughts as she put the letter back into its envelope, after reading it the second time. When she opened it, which she did quickly, not pausing a moment lest she should suspect herself of fearing to see what might be its contents, her mind was full of that rebuke which her aunt had anticipated, and which she had almost taught herself to expect. She had torn the letter open rapidly, and had dashed at its contents with quick eyes. In half a moment she had seen what was the nature of the reply respecting the proposed companion of her tour, and then she had completed her reading slowly enough. "No; I gave no commands," she repeated to herself, as though she might thereby absolve herself from blame in reference to some possible future accusations, which might perhaps be brought against her under certain circumstances which she was contemplating.

Yours ever and always,
J. G.
"I didn't give commands," Alice said to herself, as she sat with the letter at her solitary breakfast-table. "He asked me how I liked the things, and of course I was obliged to say, even if I didn't care." Such were her first thoughts after reading the letter the second time.
When she opened it, her mind was full of that rebuke which she had almost taught herself to expect. She had torn the letter open rapidly, and scanned it with quick eyes. In half a moment she had seen the nature of the reply about her companion for the tour, and then she had finished reading slowly.
"No; I gave no commands," she repeated, as though to absolve herself from blame in any possible future accusations.


Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards, and sipping her tea every now and then amidst her thoughts. No; she had no home, no house, there. She had no husband;--not as yet. He spoke of their engagement as though it were a betrothal, as betrothals used to be of yore; as though they were already in some sort married. Such betrothals were not made now-a-days. There still remained, both to him and to her, a certain liberty of extricating themselves from this engagement. Should he come to her and say that he found that their contemplated marriage would not make him happy, would not she release him without a word of reproach? Would not she regard him as much more honourable in doing so than in adhering to a marriage which was distasteful to him? And if she would so judge him,--judge him and certainly acquit him, was it not reasonable that she under similar circumstances should expect a similar acquittal? Then she declared to herself that she carried on this argument within her own breast simply as an argument, induced to do so by that assertion on his part that he was already her husband,--that his house was even now her home.

Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards. No; she had no home, no house, there. She had no husband; not yet. He spoke of their engagement as though they were already in some way married. Yet they were both still free to withdraw from the engagement. If he came to her and said that he found that their marriage would not make him happy, would not she release him without a word of reproach? Would not she regard it as an honourable act? And if things were the other way round, was it not reasonable that she should expect a similar acquittal?
Then she told herself that it was theoretical.


She had no intention of using that power which was still hers. She had no wish to go back from her pledged word. She thought that she had no such wish. She loved him much, and admired him even more than she loved him. He was noble, generous, clever, good,--so good as to be almost perfect; nay, for aught she knew he was perfect. Would that he had some faults! Would that he had! Would that he had! How could she, full of faults as she knew herself to be,--how could she hope to make happy a man perfect as he was! But then there would be no doubt as to her present duty.

She had no intention of going back from her word. She loved him much, and admired him even more than she loved him. He was noble, generous, clever, good - almost perfect. If only he had some faults! How could she, full of faults as she knew herself to be, make such a perfect man happy?
But there was no doubt as to her present duty.


She loved him, and that was everything. Having told him that she loved him, and having on that score accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart towards him could justify her in seeking to break the bond which bound them together. She did love him, and she loved him only.

She loved him, and having accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart could justify her in seeking to break the engagement. She did love him, and him only.


But she had once loved her cousin. Yes, truly it was so. In her thoughts she did not now deny it. She had loved him, and was tormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in that love than in this other that had sprung up subsequently. She had told herself that this had come of her youth;--that love at twenty was sweeter than it could be afterwards. There had been a something of rapture in that earlier dream which could never be repeated,--which could never live, indeed, except in a dream. Now, now that she was older and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which each partner would be honest to the other, in which each would wish and strive for the other's welfare, so that thus their joint welfare might be insured. Then, in those early girlish days, it had meant a total abnegation of self. The one was of earth, and therefore possible. The other had been a ray from heaven,--and impossible, except in a dream.

However, she had once loved her cousin.
Yes, it was true. In her thoughts she did not deny it. She had loved him, and was tormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in that love than in this. She had told herself that this was a result of her youth; that love at twenty was sweeter and more rapturous than it could be afterwards.
Now that she was older and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which each partner would be honest to the other, in which each would strive for the other's welfare. This love was of earth, and therefore possible. The other had been a ray from heaven - and impossible, except in a dream.


And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted that frankly. He whom she had worshipped had been an idol of clay, and she knew that it was well for her to have abandoned that idolatry. He had not only been untrue to her, but, worse than that, had been false in excusing his untruth. He had not only promised falsely, but had made such promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he had been selfish, coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lusts against that of her holy love. She had known this, and had parted from him with an oath to herself that no promised contrition on his part should ever bring them again together. But she had pardoned him as a man, though never as a lover, and had bade him welcome again as a cousin and as her friend's brother. She had again become very anxious as to his career, not hiding her regard, but professing that anxiety aloud. She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold,--and she believed even yet, in spite of her own experience, that he might not be bad at heart.

And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted that frankly. She had worshipped an idol of clay, and had done the best thing in abandoning that idolatry. George had not only been untrue to her, but had made false excuses. He had made promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he had been coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lusts against that of her love. She had known this, and had parted vowing to herself that no contrition on his part should ever bring them together again.
But though she did not pardon him as a lover, she had again welcomed him as a cousin, and as her friend Kate's brother. She had become very anxious about his career. She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold - and perhaps not bad at heart.


Now, as she told herself that in truth she loved the man to whom her troth was plighted, I fear that she almost thought more of that other man from whom she had torn herself asunder.
"Why should he find himself unhappy in London?" she said, as she went back to the letter. "Why should he pretend to condemn the very place which most men find the fittest for all their energies? Were I a man, no earthly consideration should induce me to live elsewhere. It is odd how we differ in all things. However brilliant might be his own light, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!"

Now, as she told herself that she loved John Grey, I fear that she almost thought more of that other man from whom she had torn herself apart.
"Why should Mr. Grey find himself unhappy in London?" she said, as she went back to the letter. "Why condemn the place which most men find the fittest for their energies? If I were I a man, I would live there. It is odd how we differ in all things. However brilliant his own light might be, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!"


And at last she recurred to that matter as to which she had been so anxious when she first opened her lover's letter. It will be remembered how assured she had expressed herself that Mr. Grey would not condescend to object to her travelling with her cousin. He had not so condescended. He had written on the matter with a pleasant joke, like a gentleman as he was, disdaining to allude to the past passages in the life of her whom he loved, abstaining even from expressing anything that might be taken as a permission on his part. There had been in Alice's words, as she told him of their proposed plan, a something that had betrayed a tremor in her thoughts. She had studiously striven so to frame her phrases that her tale might be told as any other simple statement,--as though there had been no trembling in her mind as she wrote. But she had failed, and she knew that she had failed. She had failed; and he had read all her effort and all her failure. She was quite conscious of this; she felt it thoroughly; and she knew that he was noble and a gentleman to the last drop of his blood. And yet--yet--yet there was almost a feeling of disappointment in that he had not written such a letter as Lady Macleod had anticipated.

And at last she reflected on his response to her travelling with her cousin. He had written on the matter with a pleasant joke, like a gentleman, without alluding to the past or implying that she needed his permission. When Alice had told him of their plan, she had tried to make it a simple, ordinary statement; but she knew that she had failed, and that he had read her failure. She was quite conscious of this; and she knew that he was a gentleman to the last drop of his blood. And yet - yet there was almost a feeling of disappointment that he had not written a disapproving letter such as Lady Macleod had anticipated.


During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to Queen Anne Street, but nothing further was said between her and Miss Vavasor as to the Swiss tour; nor were any questions asked about Mr. Grey's opinion on the subject. The old lady of course discovered that there was no quarrel, or, as she believed, any probability of a quarrel; and with that she was obliged to be contented. Nor did she again on this occasion attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's. Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned, and Lady Macleod's visits, though they were as constant as heretofore, were not so long. She did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey, and because she did not so dare, was determined to regard herself as in a degree ill-used. So she was silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece. "I would come because it's my last day," said Lady Macleod; "but really I'm so hurried, and have so many things to do, that I hardly know how to manage it."
"It's very kind," said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeeze of the hand.

During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to see Alice, but nothing was said about the Swiss tour; nor did she ask about Mr. Grey's opinion. When the old lady discovered that there was no quarrel, she had to be contented. Nor did she again attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's.
Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned. Lady Macleod did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey, and became silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece.
"I came because it's my last day," said Lady Macleod; "even though I have so many things to do."
"It's very kind," said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeeze of the hand.


"I'm keeping the cab, so I can just stay twenty-five minutes. I've marked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it's over the half-hour."
"You'll have no more trouble about cabs, aunt, when you are back in Cheltenham."
"The flies are worse, my dear. I really think they're worse. I pay the bill every month, but they've always one down that I didn't have. It's the regular practice, for I've had them from all the men in the place."
"It's hard enough to find honest men anywhere, I suppose."


"Or honest women either. What do you think of Mrs. Green wanting to charge me for an extra week, because she says I didn't give her notice till Tuesday morning? I won't pay her, and she may stop my things if she dares. However, it's the last time. I shall never come up to London again, my dear."
"Oh, aunt, don't say that!"
"But I do say it, my dear. What should an old woman like me do, trailing up to town every year, merely because it's what people choose to call the season."
"To see your friends, of course. Age doesn't matter when a person's health is so good as yours."

"It's my last time here. I shall never come up to London again, my dear."
"Oh, aunt, don't say that!"
"But I do say it, my dear. Why should an old woman like me come trailing up to town every year?"
"To see your friends, of course. Age doesn't matter when a person's health is as good as yours."


"If you knew what I suffer from lumbago,--though I must say coming to London always does cure that for the time. But as for friends--! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain when one gets to be as old as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best would sooner be without me than with me."
"Do you mean me, aunt?"
"No, my dear, I don't mean you. Of course my life would have been very different if you could have consented to remain with me till you were married. But I didn't mean you. I don't know that I meant any one. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says."
"You're a little melancholy because you're going away."

"If you knew what I suffer from lumbago. But as for friends-! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain; but I believe that those I love best would rather be without me than with me."
"Do you mean me, aunt?"
"No, my dear, I don't mean you. I don't know that I meant any one. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says."
"You're a little melancholy because you're going away."


"No, indeed. I don't know why I stayed the last week. I did say to Lady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though I know that she knew that I really didn't go, she has not once sent to me since. To be sure they've been out every night; but I thought she might have asked me to come and lunch. It's so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings in London."
"And yet you never will come and dine with me."

"No, indeed. I don't know why I stayed the last week. Though I told Lady Midlothian that I should be leaving, she has not once asked me even to lunch since. It's so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings."
"And yet you never will come and dine with me."


"No, my dear; no. But we won't talk about that. I've just one word more to say. Let me see. I've just six minutes to stay. I've made up my mind that I'll never come up to town again,--except for one thing."
"And what's that, aunt?" Alice, as she asked the question, well knew what that one thing was.
"I'll come for your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me long waiting."

"No, my dear. But we won't talk about that. I've just one word more to say. I've six minutes. I've made up my mind that I'll never come up to town again - except for one thing."
"And what's that, aunt?" Alice already knew the answer.
"Your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me waiting long."


"Ah! I can't make any promise. There's no knowing when that may be."
"And why should there be no knowing? I always think that when a girl is once engaged the sooner she's married the better. There may be reasons for delay on the gentleman's part."
"There very often are, you know,"
"But, Alice, you don't mean to say that Mr. Grey is putting it off?"

"Ah! I can't make any promise. There's no knowing when that may be."
"Why not? When a girl is once engaged, the sooner she's married the better. You don't mean to say that Mr. Grey is putting it off?"


Alice was silent for a moment, during which Lady Macleod's face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong on Mr. Grey's side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though for a second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, was too honest to allow the impression to remain. "No, aunt," she said; "Mr. Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the time."
"And why don't you fix it?"
"It is such a serious thing! After all it is not more than four months yet since I--I accepted him. I don't know that there has been any delay."
"But you might fix the time now, if he wishes it."

Alice was silent for a moment, while Lady Macleod's face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Alice was too honest to allow the impression to remain.
"No, aunt," she said; "Mr. Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the day."
"And why don't you fix it?"
"It is such a serious thing! After all, it is not more than four months yet since I - I accepted him."
"But you might fix the day now."


"Well, perhaps I shall,--some day, aunt. I'm going to think about it, and you mustn't drive me."
"But you should have some one to advise you, Alice."
"Ah! that's just it. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him directly she's bidden. I haven't much of my own way at present; but you see, when I'm married I shan't have it at all. You can't wonder that I shouldn't be in a hurry."

"Well, perhaps I shall - some time, aunt. I'm going to think about it, and you mustn't push me."
"But you should have someone to advise you, Alice."
"Ah! that's just it. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like someone, she must marry him as soon as she's told. I haven't much of my own way at present; but when I'm married I shan't have it at all. So I'm in no hurry."


"I am not advocating anything like hurry, my dear. But, goodness gracious me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write." And Lady Macleod hurried out of the room more intent at the present moment upon saving her sixpence than she was on any other matter whatsoever.

"I am not advocating any hurry, my dear. But, goodness me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write." And Lady Macleod hurried out.


And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after the time that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alice had used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the same object, and Alice was to some extent opposed to their views. Had Lady Macleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved that she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought it wise to keep Mr. Grey in the country till after Lady Macleod had gone, even though she thereby cut down the time of his sojourn in London to four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr. Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming his future son-in-law. He dined at home, and asked, or rather assented to Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party. "What an auspicious omen for the future nuptials!" said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile.

Then John Grey came up to town. Alice may have used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover, for if they had put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved not to name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland.
During this visit of Mr. Grey's to London, Mr. Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home to welcome his future son-in-law; and asked, or rather agreed to Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party.
"What an auspicious omen for your marriage!" said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile.


"Uncle John dines at home, and Mr. Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country."
"Kate," said Alice, angrily, "I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met. I would forgive your raillery, however painful it might be, if it were only fair."
"And to whom is it unfair on the present occasion;--to your father?"
"It was not intended for him."
"To yourself?"
"I care nothing as to myself; you know that very well."
"Then it must have been unfair to Mr. Grey."

"Uncle John dines at home, and Mr. Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country."
"Kate," said Alice, angrily, "I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met."
"And to whom am I being unjust; to your father?"


"Yes; it was Mr. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so."
"Exactly; but that's just what you can't do, my dear. You don't forgive him. If you did you might be quite sure that I should say nothing. And if you choose to bid me hold my tongue I will say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about this thing you can hardly expect but that I should let you know mine in return. I'm not particular; and if you are ready for a little good, wholesome, useful hypocrisy, I won't balk you. I mayn't be quite so dishonest as you call me, but I'm not so wedded to truth but what I can look, and act, and speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let us understand each other."

"It was Mr. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so."
"Exactly; but you can't, my dear. You don't forgive him. If you did, I would say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about it you can hardly expect me to keep quiet. Still, if you are ready for a little useful hypocrisy, I won't prevent you. I mayn't be quite so dishonest as you call me, but I can speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let us understand each other."


"You know I wish for no falsehood, Kate."
"I know it's very hard to understand what you do wish. I know that for the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes, and, upon my word, my success has been very indifferent. I suppose you wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain. I suppose the last thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George?"
"The very last. You're right there at any rate."

"You know I wish for no falsehood, Kate."
"It's very hard to understand what you do wish. For the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes, without success. I suppose you wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain. I suppose the last thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George?"
"The very last. You're right there at any rate."


"Alice--! sometimes you drive me too hard; you do, indeed. You make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him to me with such contempt!" Kate Vavasor, as she spoke these words, left the room with a quick step, and hurried up to her own chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend's real grief into the expression of an apology, which she knew was not properly due from her. Kate was acquainted with all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had given in her adhesion to the propriety of what Alice had done. She had allowed that her brother George's behaviour had been such as to make any engagement between them impossible. The fault, therefore, had been hers in making any reference to the question of such a marriage.

"Alice! You make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him with such contempt!" Kate Vavasor left the room quickly, and hurried up to her own chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend's real grief into making an apology which she felt she did not owe.
Kate knew all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had agreed with the propriety of what Alice had done. She had admitted that her brother George's behaviour had made any engagement impossible. The fault had been hers, in referring to the possibility of such a marriage.


Nor had it been by any means her first fault of the same kind. Till Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey she had spoken of George only as her brother, or as her friend's cousin, but now she was constantly making allusion to those past occurrences, which all of them should have striven to forget. Under these circumstances was not Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not have been accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
[Illustration: "Sometimes you drive me too hard."]
The little dinner-party went off very quietly; and if no other ground existed for charging Mr. Grey with London dissipation than what that afforded, he was accused most unjustly. The two young men had never before met each other; and Vavasor had gone to his uncle's house, prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor in Alice's favour. But in this he was either disappointed or gratified, as the case may be. "He has plenty to say for himself," he said to Kate on his way home.
"Oh yes; he can talk."

It had not been for the first time. Since Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey, Kate had been constantly mentioning those past events, which all of them should have tried to forget. Under these circumstances was not Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not have been accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
The little dinner-party went off very quietly. The two young men had never before met each other; and George Vavasor had gone to his uncle's house, prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor. But in this he was disappointed.
"He has plenty to say for himself," he said to Kate on his way home.
"Oh yes; he can talk."


"And he doesn't talk like a prig either, which was what I expected. He's uncommonly handsome."
"I thought men never saw that in each other. I never see it in any man."
"I see it in every animal--in men, women, horses, dogs, and even pigs. I like to look on handsome things. I think people always do who are ugly themselves."
"And so you're going into raptures in favour of John Grey."

"And he doesn't talk like a prig either, like I expected. He's uncommonly handsome."
"So you're going into raptures in favour of John Grey."


"No, I'm not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle over about those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anything it is about the stage twenty years ago." There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sister than to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.

"No, I'm not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk."
There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, but generally from his head.


On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Grey came to say good-bye to his betrothed;--for his betrothed she certainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she had used in trying to convince herself that she was still free if she wished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Alice during the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as to the day of their marriage. He had been constantly with her alone, sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had never touched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which she had never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much of his garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father, whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And he had talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate way upon his own or her affairs; for Mr. Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
"Well, Alice," he said, when the last hour had come, "and about that question of home affairs?"
"Let us finish off the foreign affairs first."
"We have finished them; haven't we?"

On the day after the little dinner, John Grey came to say good-bye to Alice. Though he had been constantly with her during the last three days, he had not said anything about the day of their marriage. He had told her much of Switzerland, which he knew well, and of his house and garden, and other matters, for Mr. Grey was a man who knew how to make words pleasant; but he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
"Well, Alice," he said, when the last hour had come, "and about that question of home affairs.


"Finished them! why we haven't started yet."
"No; you haven't started. But we've had the discussion. Is there any reason why you'd rather not have this thing settled."
"No; no special reason."
"Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?"
"No."
"I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me."

Is there any reason why you'd rather not have this thing settled?"
"No; no special reason."
"Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?"
"No."
"I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me."


"No; I don't repent it;--what you call my goodness? I love you too entirely for that."
"My darling!" And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stood near the empty fireplace. "And if you love me--"
"I do love you."
"Then why should you not wish to come to me?"
"I do wish it. I think I wish it."
"But, Alice, you must have wished it altogether when you consented to be my wife."

"No; I love you too entirely for that."
"My darling!" He passed his arm round her waist. "Then why should you not wish to come to me?"
"I do wish it, I think.


"A person may wish for a thing altogether, and yet not wish for it instantly."
"Instantly! Come; I have not been hard on you. This is still June. Will you say the middle of September, and we shall still be in time for warm pleasant days among the lakes? Is that asking for too much?"
"It is not asking for anything."
"Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything."

But a person may wish for a thing, and yet not wish for it instantly."
"Instantly! Come; I have not been hard on you. This is still June. Will you say the middle of September, and we shall still be in time for warm pleasant days among the lakes? Is that asking for too much?"
"It is not asking for anything."
"Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything."


She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words to put them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bring herself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own, that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
"John," she said at last, "do not press me about this till I return."
"But then you will say the time is short. It would be short then."

She was silent, not knowing what words to use. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would say to him. She could not bring herself to hint that his views of life were so unlike her own that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean towards the other.
No man could be more gracious or chivalrous than John Grey; but he always spoke as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a thought of doubting, by his wife. Why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
"John," she said at last, "do not press me about this till I return.


"I cannot answer you now;--indeed, I cannot. That is I cannot answer in the affirmative. It is such a solemn thing."
"Will it ever be less solemn, dearest?"
"Never, I hope never."
He did not press her further then, but kissed her and bade her farewell.

I cannot answer you now; it is such a solemn thing."
"Will it ever be less solemn, dearest?"
"Never, I hope."
He did not press her further then, but kissed her and bade her farewell.


When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return.

When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little dinner with her two lovers, she sat down to think. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield - or she might take neither. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew it. Something had been said about her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and felt that each man should know his prospect if she did return.


There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself.

There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms are very comfortable; and heaps of manure, though not romantic, are useful in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for their owner, though she saw much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that a wife of spirit might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love.
Her marriage for money had been successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been disagreeable, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got her due reward, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. Some of her tears were dropped with sincerity. She was essentially a happy-natured woman, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself.


She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor.

She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. However, she also resolved that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor.


But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man!

But should she marry Captain Bellfield? Strange to say, his poverty and scampishness and lies almost recommended him to her. She was not afraid of them; she thought that she could cure them - if they needed curing. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and she too had owed money for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days.
But she was aware of the danger that there might be more behind, of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what if he should not be a real captain at all!


Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield.
Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night.
"Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled."
"Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?"
Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress.

Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this: that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he knew.
Between nine and ten in the evening, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with sherry, which it was her habit to take before retiring for the night.
"Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled."
"Oh, ma'am, of course they have! How was they to help it?"
Jeannette, on these occasions, usually stood by her mistress's chair, chatting with her; and if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself - and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress.


"And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish."
"I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say."
"You're a young thing, Jeannette."
"Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look."
"But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?"

"Why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish."
"I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's natural. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, I should expect as they would punch each other's heads."
"But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?"