Before the day came on which Alice was to go to Matching Priory, she had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to Matching Priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her,--this lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady Macleod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked,--and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street;--but she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She would have no other friend or acquaintance in that house, and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold, and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit, too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme; she had wronged Lady Glencora, and had therefore been unable to resist her second request.

Before she left for Matching Priory, Alice regretted that she had promised to go. She feared this closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them that she did not to put her idea aside.
And perhaps she was a little afraid of the great folk whom she might meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked - and loved too, with that momentary love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. However, she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and pomp. She would have no other acquaintance in that house.


But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself.
Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Grey. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a Duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a Duchess of Omnium. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. "I think you owe it as a duty to your family to go," said Lady Macleod.
What further correspondence about her affairs had passed between Lady Macleod and Lady Midlothian Alice never knew. She steadily refused all entreaty made that she would answer the Countess's letter, and at last threatened her aunt that if the request were further urged she would answer it,--telling Lady Midlothian that she had been very impertinent.

She felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and half made up her mind to excuse herself.
Her aunt approved of her going, for Lady Glencora would become a Duchess. Lady Macleod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She bade Alice go to Matching Priory, simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best way within her reach.
What letters had passed between Lady Macleod and Lady Midlothian Alice never knew. She steadily refused to answer the Countess's letter, and at last threatened her aunt that if she were asked again, she would answer by telling Lady Midlothian that she had been very impertinent.


"I am becoming a very old woman, Alice," the poor lady said, piteously, "and I suppose I had better not interfere any further. Whatever I have said I have always meant to be for your good." Then Alice got up, and kissing her aunt, tried to explain to her that she resented no interference from her, and felt grateful for all that she both said and did; but that she could not endure meddling from people whom she did not know, and who thought themselves entitled to meddle by their rank.
"And because they are cousins as well," said Lady Macleod, in a softly sad, apologetic voice.
Alice left Cheltenham about the middle of November on her road to Matching Priory. She was to sleep in London one night, and go down to Matching in Yorkshire with her maid on the following day. Her father undertook to meet her at the Great Western Station, and to take her on the following morning to the Great Northern. He said nothing in his letter about dining with her, but when he met her, muttered something about an engagement, and taking her home graciously promised that he would breakfast with her on the following morning.
"I'm very glad you are going, Alice," he said when they were in the cab together.
"Why, papa?"

"I am becoming an old woman, Alice," the poor lady said, piteously, "and I won't interfere any further. Whatever I have said I have always meant for your good." Then Alice kissed her aunt, and tried to explain that she felt grateful; but that she could not endure meddling from people whom she did not know.
Alice left Cheltenham about the middle of November. She was to sleep in London one night, and go to Matching in Yorkshire with her maid on the following day. Her father met her at the Great Western Station, and was to take her on the following morning to the Great Northern.
"I'm very glad you are going, Alice," he said when they were in the cab together.
"Why, papa?"


"Why?--because I think it's the proper thing to do. You know I've never said much to you about these people. They're not connected with me, and I know that they hate the name of Vavasor;--not but what the name is a deal older than any of theirs, and the family too."
"And therefore I don't understand why you think I'm specially right. If you were to say I was specially wrong, I should be less surprised, and of course I shouldn't go."
"You should go by all means. Rank and wealth are advantages, let anybody say what they will to the contrary. Why else does everybody want to get them?"
"But I shan't get them by going to Matching Priory."

"Why? because it's the proper thing to do. I've never said much to you about these people. I know they hate the name of Vavasor - although the name is a deal older than theirs, and the family too."
"So I don't understand why you think I'm right to go."
"Because rank and wealth are advantages."
"But I shan't get them by going to Matching Priory."


"You'll get part of their value. Take them as a whole, the nobility of England are pleasant acquaintances to have. I haven't run after them very much myself, though I married, as I may say, among them. That very thing rather stood in my way than otherwise. But you may be sure of this, that men and women ought to grow, like plants, upwards. Everybody should endeavour to stand as well as he can in the world, and if I had a choice of acquaintance between a sugar-baker and a peer, I should prefer the peer,--unless, indeed, the sugar-baker had something very strong on his side to offer. I don't call that tuft-hunting, and it does not necessitate toadying. It's simply growing up, towards the light, as the trees do."

"You'll get part of their value. On the whole, the nobility of England are pleasant acquaintances to have. I haven't run after them very much myself; but men and women ought to grow, like plants, upwards. Everybody should endeavour to stand as well as he can in the world. It's not toadying. It's simply growing up, towards the light, as the trees do."


Alice listened to her father's worldly wisdom with a smile, but she did not attempt to answer him. It was very seldom, indeed, that he took upon himself the labour of lecturing her, or that he gave her even as much counsel as he had given now. "Well, papa, I hope I shall find myself growing towards the light," she said as she got out of the cab. Then he had not entered the house, but had taken the cab on with him to his club.

Alice listened to her father's worldly wisdom with a smile. It was very seldom that he lectured her.
"Well, papa, I hope I shall find myself growing towards the light," she said as she got out of the cab at their house. He continued on to his club.


On her table Alice found a note from her cousin George. "I hear you are going down to the Pallisers at Matching Priory to-morrow, and as I shall be glad to say one word to you before you go, will you let me see you this evening,--say at nine?--G. V." She felt immediately that she could not help seeing him, but she greatly regretted the necessity. She wished that she had gone directly from Cheltenham to the North,--regardless even of those changes of wardrobe which her purposed visit required. Then she set herself to considering. How had George heard of her visit to the Priory, and how had he learned the precise evening which she would pass in London? Why should he be so intent on watching all her movements as it seemed that he was? As to seeing him she had no alternative, so she completed her arrangements for her journey before nine, and then awaited him in the drawing-room.
"I'm so glad you're going to Matching Priory," were the first words he said. He, too, might have taught her to grow towards the light, if she had asked him for his reasons;--but this she did not do just then.

On her table Alice found a note from her cousin George. "I hear you are going down to the Pallisers at Matching Priory tomorrow, and as I shall be glad to say one word to you before you go, will you let me see you this evening, say at nine? G. V."
She felt immediately that she could not help seeing him, but she greatly regretted the necessity. Then she began wondering how George had heard of her visit to the Priory, and how had he learned the precise evening which she would pass in London? Why should he be so intent on watching all her movements? At nine she awaited him in the drawing-room.
"I'm so glad you're going to Matching Priory," were the first words he said. She did not ask him why.


"How did you learn that I was going?" she said.
"I heard it from a friend of mine. Well;--from Burgo Fitzgerald, if you must know."
"From Mr. Fitzgerald?" said Alice, in profound astonishment: "How could Mr. Fitzgerald have heard of it?"
"That's more than I know, Alice. Not directly from Lady Glencora, I should say."
"That would be impossible."

"How did you learn that I was going?" she said.
"I heard it from a friend of mine. Burgo Fitzgerald, if you must know."
"How could Mr. Fitzgerald have heard of it?" said Alice, in profound astonishment.
"That's more than I know, Alice. Not directly from Lady Glencora, I should say.


"Yes; quite so, no doubt. I think she keeps up her intimacy with Burgo's sister, and perhaps it got round to him in that way."
"And did he tell you also that I was going to-morrow? He must have known all about it very accurately."

I think she keeps up her intimacy with Burgo's sister, and perhaps it got round to him that way."
"And did he tell you also that I was going tomorrow?"


"No; then I asked Kate, and Kate told me when you were going. Yes; I know. Kate has been wrong, hasn't she? Kate was cautioned, no doubt, to say nothing about your comings and goings to so inconsiderable a person as myself. But you must not be down upon Kate. She never mentioned it till I showed by my question to her that I knew all about your journey to Matching. I own I do not understand why it should be necessary to keep me so much in the dark."
Alice felt that she was blushing. The caution had been given to Kate because Kate still transgressed in her letters, by saying little words about her brother. And Alice did not even now believe Kate to have been false to her; but she saw that she herself had been imprudent.

"No; then I asked Kate, and Kate told me. Yes; I know. Kate has been wrong, hasn't she? But she never mentioned it till I told her that I knew all about your journey to Matching. I do not understand why it should be necessary to keep me so much in the dark."
Alice felt that she was blushing.


"I cannot understand it," continued George, speaking without looking at her. "It was but the other day that we were such dear friends! Do you remember the balcony at Basle? and now it seems that we are quite estranged;--nay, worse than estranged; that I am, as it were, under some ban. Have I done anything to offend you, Alice? If so, speak out, like a woman of spirit as you are."
"Nothing," said Alice.
"Then why am I tabooed? Why was I told the other day that I might not congratulate you on your happy emancipation? I say boldly, that had you resolved on that while we were together in Switzerland, you would have permitted me, as a friend, almost as a brother, to discuss it with you."

"I cannot understand it," continued George, speaking without looking at her. "The other day we were such dear friends! Do you remember the balcony at Basle? and now it seems that we are quite estranged; nay, worse; that I am under some ban. Have I done anything to offend you, Alice?"
"Nothing."
"Then why am I tabooed? Why was I told the other day that I might not congratulate you on your freedom? If you had resolved on that while we were together in Switzerland, you would have permitted me, as a friend, almost as a brother, to discuss it with you."


"I think not, George."
"I am sure you would. And why has Kate been warned not to tell me of this visit to the Pallisers? I know she has been warned though she has not confessed it."
Alice sat silent, not knowing what to say in answer to this charge brought against her,--thinking, perhaps, that the questioner would allow his question to pass without an answer. But Vavasor was not so complaisant. "If there be any reason, Alice, I think that I have a right to ask it."

"I think not, George."
"I am sure you would. And why has Kate been warned not to tell me of this visit to the Pallisers? I know she has been warned though she has not confessed it. If there be any reason, Alice, I think that I have a right to ask it."


For a few seconds she did not speak a word, but sat considering. He also remained silent with his eyes fixed upon her. She looked at him and saw nothing but his scar,--nothing but his scar and the brightness of his eyes, which was almost fierce. She knew that he was in earnest, and therefore resolved that she would be in earnest also. "I think that you have such a right," she said at last.
"Then let me exercise it."
"I think that you have such a right, but I think also that you are ungenerous to exercise it."
"I cannot understand that. By heavens, Alice, I cannot be left in this suspense! If I have done anything to offend you, perhaps I can remove the offence by apology."

For a few seconds she sat considering. He also remained silent with his eyes fixed upon her. She looked at him and saw nothing but his scar, and the fierce brightness of his eyes. She knew that he was in earnest, and therefore resolved that she would be in earnest also.
"I think that you have a right to ask," she said at last, "but I think also that you are ungenerous to exercise it."
"By heavens, Alice, I cannot be left in this suspense! If I have done anything to offend you, perhaps I can apologise."


"You have done nothing to offend me."
"Or if there be any cause why our friendship should be dropped,--why we should be on a different footing to each other in London than we were in Switzerland, I may acknowledge it, if it be explained to me. But I cannot put up with the doubt, when I am told that I have a right to demand its solution."
"Then I will be frank with you, George, though my being so will, as you may guess, be very painful." She paused again, looking at him to see if yet he would spare her; but he was all scar and eyes as before, and there was no mercy in his face.
"Your sister, George, has thought that my parting with Mr. Grey might lead to a renewal of a purpose of marriage between you and me. You know her eagerness, and will understand that it may have been necessary that I should require silence from her on that head. You ought now to understand it all."
"I then am being punished for her sins," he said; and suddenly the scar on his face was healed up again, and there was something of the old pleasantness in his eyes.
"I have said nothing about any sins, George, but I have found it necessary to be on my guard."

"You have done nothing to offend me."
"Or if there be any cause why our friendship should be dropped, I may acknowledge it, if it is explained to me. But I cannot put up with the doubt."
"Then I will be frank with you, George, though it may be very painful." She paused again, looking at him to see if he would spare her; but he was all scar and eyes as before, with no mercy in his face.
"Your sister has thought that my parting with Mr. Grey might lead to a renewal of an engagement between you and me. You know her eagerness, and you ought now to understand."
"Then I am being punished for her sins," he said; and suddenly the scar on his face was healed up again, and there was something of the old pleasantness in his eyes.
"I have said nothing about any sins, George, but I have found it necessary to be on my guard."


"Well," he said, after a short pause, "You are an honest woman, Alice,--the honestest I ever knew. I will bring Kate to order,--and, now, we may be friends again; may we not?" And he extended his hand to her across the table.
"Yes," she said, "certainly, if you wish it." She spoke doubtingly, with indecision in her voice, as though remembering at the moment that he had given her no pledge. "I certainly do wish it very much," said he; and then she gave him her hand.
"And I may now talk about your new freedom?"

"Well," he said, "You are an honest woman, Alice, the honestest I ever knew. Now, we may be friends again; may we not?" And he extended his hand to her across the table.
"Yes," she said doubtingly, "certainly, if you wish it."
"I certainly do wish it very much," said he; and then she gave him her hand. "And I may now talk about your new freedom?"


"No," said she; "no. Do not speak of that. A woman does not do what I have done in that affair without great suffering. I have to think of it daily; but do not make me speak of it."
"But this other subject, this visit to Matching; surely I may speak of that?" There was something now in his voice so bright, that she felt the influence of it, and answered him cheerfully, "I don't see what you can have to say about it."
"But I have a great deal. I am so glad you are going. Mind you cement a close intimacy with Mr. Palliser."
"With Mr. Palliser?"

"No. A woman does not do what I have done without great suffering. I have to think of it daily; but do not make me speak of it."
"But this visit to Matching; surely I may speak of that?" There was something now in his voice so bright that she answered him cheerfully.
"I don't see what you can have to say about it."
"But I have a great deal. I am glad you are going. Mind you make friends with Mr. Palliser."
"Why?"


"Yes; with Mr. Palliser. You must read all the blue books about finance. I'll send them to you if you like it."
"Oh, George!"
"I'm quite in earnest. That is, not in earnest about the blue books, as you would not have time; but about Mr. Palliser. He will be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer without a doubt."
"Will he indeed? But why should I make a bosom friend of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I don't want any public money."

"He will be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer without a doubt."
"Will he indeed? But why should I make a bosom friend of the Chancellor of the Exchequer? I don't want any public money."


"But I do, my girl. Don't you see?"
"No; I don't."
"I think I shall get returned at this next election."
"I'm sure I hope you will."
"And if I do, of course it will be my game to support the ministry;--or rather the new ministry; for of course there will be changes."
"I hope they will be on the right side."
"Not a doubt of that, Alice."
"I wish they might be changed altogether."

"But I do, my girl. I think I shall get returned at this next election."
"I hope you will."
"And if I do, of course it will be my game to support the ministry; or rather the new ministry, for of course there will be changes."
"I wish they might be changed altogether."


"Ah! that's impossible. It's very well as a dream; but there are no such men as you want to see,--men really from the people,--strong enough to take high office. A man can't drive four horses because he's a philanthropist,--or rather a philhorseophist, and is desirous that the team should be driven without any hurt to them. A man can't govern well, simply because he is genuinely anxious that men should be well governed."
"And will there never be any such men?"

"Ah! that's impossible. There are no such men as you want to see - men really of the people - strong enough to take high office. A man can't govern well, simply because he is genuinely anxious that men should be well governed."
"And will there never be any such men?"


"I won't say that. I don't mind confessing to you that it is my ambition to be such a one myself. But a child must crawl before he can walk. Such a one as I, hoping to do something in politics, must spare no chance. It would be something to me that Mr. Palliser should become the friend of any dear friend of mine,--especially of a dear friend bearing the same name."
"I'm afraid, George, you'll find me a bad hand at making any such friendship."
"They say he is led immensely by his wife, and that she is very clever. But I mean this chiefly, Alice, that I do hope I shall have all your sympathy in any political career that I may make, and all your assistance also."
"My sympathy I think I can promise you. My assistance, I fear, would be worthless."

"I won't say that. I don't mind confessing that it is my ambition to be such a one myself. It would be something to me that Mr. Palliser should become the friend of any dear friend of mine."
"I'm afraid, George, you'll find me a bad hand at making any such friendship."
"They say he is led by his wife, and that she is very clever. But what I really mean, Alice, is that I do hope I shall have your sympathy in any political career, and your assistance also."
"My sympathy I can promise you. My assistance, I fear, would be worthless."


"By no means worthless, Alice; not if I see you take that place in the world which I hope to see you fill. Do you think women nowadays have no bearing upon the politics of the times? Almost as much as men have." In answer to which Alice shook her head; but, nevertheless, she felt in some way pleased and flattered.
George left her without saying a word more about her marriage prospects past or future, and Alice as she went to bed felt glad that this explanation between them had been made.

"By no means worthless, Alice; do you think women nowadays have no bearing upon politics?"
Alice shook her head; but, nevertheless, she felt in some way pleased and flattered.
George left, and Alice as she went to bed felt glad that this explanation between them had been made.


I am not going to describe the Vavasors' Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers. "Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland, by party of three," would have but very small chance of success in the literary world at present, and I should consider myself to be dishonest if I attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is. _Retro age, Satanas._ No living man or woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimsell or of the Gemmi. Ludgate Hill is now-a-days more interesting than the Jungfrau.

I am not going to describe the Vavasors' Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers to palm off "Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland" in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is.


The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George had said, they had gone out for pleasure and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen, It delighted him to sit still on some outer bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr. Grey prophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him as their slave.
"What fine fellows those Alpine club men think themselves," he said on one of these occasions, "and how thoroughly they despise the sort of enjoyment I get from mountains. But they're mistaken."
"I don't see why either need be mistaken," said Alice.

The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour, having gone for pleasure and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen, It delighted George to sit on some bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him as their slave.
"What fine fellows those Alpine club men think themselves," he said on one of these occasions.


"But they are mistaken," he continued. "They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It's like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks."
"But is the exercise nothing?" said Kate.
"Yes; the exercise is very fine;--but that avoids the question."
"And they all botanize," said Alice.

"They rob the mountains of their poetry. Mont Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It's like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks."
"But is the exercise nothing?" said Kate.
"Yes; the exercise is very fine."
"And they all botanize," said Alice.


"I don't believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain and down again. But if they did, that avoids the question also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details, not the less because such familiarity may have useful results. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares. Look in there, through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at the end. Are you not dreaming of the unknown beautiful world that exists up there;--beautiful, as heaven is beautiful, because you know nothing of the reality? If you make your way up there and back to-morrow, and find out all about it, do you mean to say that it will be as beautiful to you when you come back?"
"Yes;--I think it would," said Alice.

"I don't believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain and down again. But that is beside the point. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares. Look through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at the end. Are you not dreaming of the unknown beautiful world that exists up there; beautiful because you know nothing of the reality? If you travel up there and back tomorrow, and find out all about it, will it be as beautiful to you when you come back?"
"Yes; I think it would," said Alice.


"Then you've no poetry in you. Now I'm made up of poetry." After that they began to laugh at him and were very happy.
I think that Mr. Grey was right in answering Alice's letter as he did; but I think that Lady Macleod was also right in saying that Alice should not have gone to Switzerland in company with George Vavasor. A peculiar familiarity sprang up, which, had all its circumstances been known to Mr. Grey, would not have entirely satisfied him, even though no word was said which might in itself have displeased him. During the first weeks of their travelling no word was said which would have displeased him; but at last, when the time for their return was drawing nigh, when their happiness was nearly over, and that feeling of melancholy was coming on them which always pervades the last hours of any period that has been pleasant,--then words became softer than they had been, and references were made to old days,--allusions which never should have been permitted between them.

"Then you've no poetry in you. Now I'm made up of poetry." They began to laugh at him and were very happy.
I think that Mr. Grey was right in answering Alice's letter as he did; but I think that Lady Macleod was also right in saying that Alice should not have gone to Switzerland with George Vavasor. A peculiar familiarity sprang up, which would not have entirely satisfied Mr. Grey, even though no word was said which might have displeased him - at least, during the first few weeks.
But at last, when the time for return was drawing near, when their happiness was nearly over, and that melancholy was coming on them which always pervades the last hours of any pleasant time - then unwise references were made to old days.


Alice had been very happy,--more happy perhaps in that she had been a joint minister with Kate to her cousin George's idle fantasies, than she would have been hurrying about with him as her slave. They had tacitly agreed to spoil him with comforts; and girls are always happier in spoiling some man than in being spoiled by men. And he had taken it all well, doing his despotism pleasantly, exacting much, but exacting nothing that was disagreeable. And he had been amusing always, as Alice thought without any effort. But men and women, when they show themselves at their best, seldom do so without an effort. If the object be near the heart the effort will be pleasant to him who makes it, and if it be made well, it will be hidden; but, not the less, will the effort be there. George Vavasor had on the present occasion done his very best to please his cousin.

Alice had been very happy, more happy perhaps as a joint minister to her cousin George's idle fantasies, than she would have been with him as her slave. She and Kate had tacitly agreed to spoil him with comforts; and he had been amusing always, apparently without any effort. But it had not been effortless. George Vavasor had done his very best to please his cousin.


They were sitting at Basle one evening in the balcony of the big hotel which overlooks the Rhine. The balcony runs the length of the house, and is open to all the company; but it is spacious, and little parties can be formed there with perfect privacy. The swift broad Rhine runs underneath, rushing through from the bridge which here spans the river; and every now and then on summer evenings loud shouts come up from strong swimmers in the water, who are glorying in the swiftness of the current. The three were sitting there, by themselves, at the end of the balcony. Coffee was before them on a little table, and George's cigar, as usual, was in his mouth.
"It's nearly all over," said he, after they had remained silent for some minutes.
"And I do think it has been a success," said Kate. "Always excepting about the money. I'm ruined for ever."
"I'll make your money all straight," said George.

They were sitting at Basle one evening on the balcony of the big hotel which overlooks the Rhine. The swift broad river runs underneath, rushing through from the bridge; and on summer evenings shouts come up from strong swimmers, glorying in the swiftness of the current.
The three were sitting there, by themselves, with their coffee on a little table, and George's cigar in his mouth.
"It's nearly all over," said he.
"I do think it has been a success," said Kate. "Except about the money. I'm ruined for ever."
"I'll make your money all straight," said George.


"Indeed you'll do nothing of the kind," said Kate. "I'm ruined, but you are ruineder. But what signifies? It is such a great thing ever to have had six weeks' happiness, that the ruin is, in point of fact, a good speculation. What do you say, Alice? Won't you vote, too, that we've done it well?"
"I think we've done it very well. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Kate. "I'm ruined, but you are ruineder. But what does it matter? It is such a great thing to have had six weeks' happiness, that the ruin is a good investment. What do you say, Alice? Have we done it well?"
"I think we've done it very well. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly."


"And now you've got to go home to John Grey and Cambridgeshire! It's no wonder you should be melancholy." That was the thought in Kate's mind, but she did not speak it out on this occasion.
"That's good of you, Alice," said Kate. "Is it not, George? I like a person who will give a hearty meed of approbation."
"But I am giving the meed of approbation to myself."
"I like a person even to do that heartily," said Kate. "Not that George and I are thankful for the compliment. We are prepared to admit that we owe almost everything to you,--are we not, George?"

"And now you've got to go home to John Grey and Cambridgeshire! It's no wonder you are melancholy." That was the thought in Kate's mind, but she did not speak it aloud.
"That's good of you, Alice," she said. "We are prepared to admit that we owe almost everything to you, are we not, George?"


"I'm not; by any means," said George.
"Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return. Have I been cross once, Alice?"
"No; I don't think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious."
"But I haven't been once ferocious,--nor has George."
"He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had," said Alice. "We've done nothing since we've started but realize from him that picture in 'Punch' of the young gentleman at Jeddo who had a dozen ladies to wait upon him."

"I'm not, by any means," said George.
"Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return. Have I been cross once, Alice?"
"No; I don't think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious."
"But I haven't once been ferocious; nor has George."
"He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had," said Alice. "We've done nothing but wait upon him."


"And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George."
"No, you don't;--nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It's because they think so that they generally want to put an end to the man's condition."
"It's envy that makes us want to get married,--not love," said Kate.
"It's the devil in some shape, as often as not," said he. "With a man, marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant."
"Not always," said Alice.

"And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I pity you, George."
"No, you don't; nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of lives. That's why they generally want to put an end to the man's condition."
"So it's envy that makes us want to get married," said Kate.
"It's the devil in some shape, as often as not," said he. "With a man, marriage always seems to him to be an evil."
"Not always," said Alice.


"Almost always;--but he does it, as he takes physic, because something worse will come if he don't. A man never likes having his tooth pulled out, but all men do have their teeth pulled out,--and they who delay it too long suffer the very mischief."
"I do like George's philosophy," said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke; "it is so sharp, and has such a pleasant acid taste about it; and then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I'm going up-stairs to begin the final packing."
"I'll come with you, dear."
"No, don't. To tell the truth I'm only going into that man's room because he won't put up a single thing of his own decently. We'll do ours, of course, when we go up to bed. Whatever you disarrange to-night, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself to-morrow morning, for I promise I won't go into your room at five o'clock."
"How I do hate that early work," said George.

"Almost always; but he does it, as he takes medicine, because something worse will come if he don't. A man never likes having his tooth pulled, but all men do have teeth pulled, and those who delay it suffer the very mischief."
"I do like George's philosophy," said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke; "it is so sharp, and pleasantly acid; and we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I'm going upstairs to finish packing."
"I'll come with you, dear."
"No, don't. To tell the truth I'm going into that man's room because he won't pack a single thing of his own decently. Whatever you disarrange tonight, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself tomorrow morning.


"I'll be down again very soon," said Kate. "Then we'll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed."
Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together before many times since their travels had commenced; but they both of them felt that there was something to them in the present moment different from any other period of their journey. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to go up-stairs with Kate; but Kate's answer had been of such a nature that had she gone she would have shown that she had some special reason for going. Why should she show such a need? Or why, indeed, should she entertain it?

I'll be down again very soon," said Kate. "Then we'll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed."
Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together many times during their travels; but they both felt that there was something different now - something sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice knew that it would be better for her to go upstairs with Kate; but she could have given no good reason why she needed to go. Why should she show such a need?


Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate's chair was at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seated themselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffee-cups, and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away without some special preparation for going, and Kate had so placed her chair in leaving, that she must actually have asked George to move it before she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on, with quick but still unperceived approach, as it does in those parts; for the twilight there is not prolonged as it is with us more northern folk. The night had come on, but there was a rising moon, which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliciously soft;--of that softness which produces no sensation either of warmth or cold, but which just seems to touch one with loving tenderness, as though the unseen spirits of the air kissed one's forehead as they passed on their wings. The Rhine was running at her feet, so near, that in the soft half light it seemed as though she might step into its ripple.

Alice was seated at the end of the balcony, and George sat at the other side of the small coffee-table, so that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away. But why should she wish to escape?
Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on quickly, but there was a rising moon, which gave a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliciously soft, seeming to touch her with loving tenderness. The Rhine was running at her feet, so near that in the soft half light it seemed as though she might step into its ripple.


The Rhine was running by with that delicious sound of rapidly moving waters, that fresh refreshing gurgle of the river, which is so delicious to the ear at all times. If you be talking, it wraps up your speech, keeping it for yourselves, making it difficult neither to her who listens nor to him who speaks. If you would sleep, it is of all lullabies the sweetest. If you are alone and would think, it aids all your thoughts. If you are alone, and, alas! would not think,--if thinking be too painful,--it will dispel your sorrow, and give the comfort which music alone can give. Alice felt that the air kissed her, that the river sang for her its sweetest song, that the moon shone for her with its softest light,--that light which lends the poetry of half-developed beauty to everything that it touches. Why should she leave it?

Its refreshing gurgle was delicious to the ear. Alice felt that the air kissed her, that the river sang for her its sweetest song, that the moon shone for her with its softest light. Why should she leave it?


Nothing was said for some minutes after Kate's departure, and Alice was beginning to shake from her that half feeling of danger which had come over her. Vavasor had sat back in his chair, leaning against the house, with his feet raised upon a stool; his arms were folded across his breast, and he seemed to have divided himself between his thoughts and his cigar. Alice was looking full upon the river, and her thoughts had strayed away to her future home among John Grey's flower-beds and shrubs; but the river, though it sang to her pleasantly, seemed to sing a song of other things than such a home as that,--a song full of mystery, as are all river songs when one tries to understand their words.
"When are you to be married, Alice?" said George at last.
"Oh, George!" said she. "You ask me a question as though you were putting a pistol to my ear."
"I'm sorry the question was so unpleasant."

Nothing was said for some minutes after Kate's departure, and Alice was beginning to shake off that half feeling of danger which had come over her. Vavasor had sat back in his chair, his arms folded, smoking silently. As Alice looked upon the river, her thoughts strayed to her future home among John Grey's flower-beds and shrubs; but the river seemed to sing a song of other things - a song full of mystery, as are all river songs.
"When are you to be married, Alice?"
"Oh, George! You startled me."
"I'm sorry.


"I didn't say that it was unpleasant; but you asked it so suddenly! The truth is, I didn't expect you to speak at all just then. I suppose I was thinking of something."
"But if it be not unpleasant,--when are you to be married?"
"I do not know. It is not fixed."
"But about when, I mean? This summer?"
"Certainly not this summer, for the summer will be over when we reach home."

But when are you to be married?"
"I do not know. It is not fixed."
"But this summer?"
"Certainly not this summer, for the summer will be over when we reach home."


"This winter? Next spring? Next year?--or in ten years' time?"
"Before the expiration of the ten years, I suppose. Anything more exact than that I can't say."
"I suppose you like it?" he then said.
"What, being married? You see I've never tried yet."

"This winter? Next spring? Next year? - or in ten years' time?"
"Before ten years are up, I suppose. Anything more exact than that I can't say."
"I suppose you like it?" he said.
"What, being married? I've never tried it yet."


"The idea of it,--the anticipation, You look forward with satisfaction to the kind of life you will lead at Nethercoats? Don't suppose I am saying anything against it, for I have no conception what sort of a place Nethercoats is. On the whole I don't know that there is any kind of life better than that of an English country gentleman in his own place;--that is, if he can keep it up, and not live as the old squire does, in a state of chronic poverty."
"Mr. Grey's place doesn't entitle him to be called a country gentleman."
"But you like the prospect of it?"
"Oh, George, how you do cross-question one! Of course I like it, or I shouldn't have accepted it."

"The idea of it. You look forward with satisfaction to the life you will lead at Nethercoats? I am not saying anything against it, for I don't know what sort of a place Nethercoats is. On the whole there is no kind of life better than that of an English country gentleman in his own place; that is, if he can keep it up, and not live as my grandfather does, in a state of chronic poverty."
"Mr. Grey's place doesn't entitle him to be called a country gentleman."
"But you like the prospect of it?"
"Oh, George, how you do cross-question one! Of course I like it, or I shouldn't have accepted it."


"That does not follow. But I quite acknowledge that I have no right to cross-question you. If I ever had such right on the score of cousinship, I have lost it on the score of--; but we won't mind that, will we, Alice?" To this she at first made no answer, but he repeated the question. "Will we, Alice?"
"Will we what?"
"Recur to the old days."
"Why should we recur to them? They are passed, and as we are again friends and dear cousins the sting of them is gone."

"That does not follow. But I quite acknowledge that I have no right to cross-question you. If I ever had such right on the score of cousinship, I have lost it on the score of - but we won't mind that, will we, Alice?" When she did not answer, he repeated, "Will we, Alice?"
"Will we what?"
"Recur to the old days."
"Why should we recur to them? They are passed, and as we are again friends and dear cousins the sting of them is gone."


"Ah, yes! The sting of them is gone. It is for that reason, because it is so, that we may at last recur to them without danger. If we regret nothing,--if neither of us has anything to regret, why not recur to them, and talk of them freely?"
"No, George; that would not do."
"By heavens, no! It would drive me mad; and if I know aught of you, it would hardly leave you as calm as you are at present."
"As I would wish to be left calm--"

"Ah, yes! The sting of them is gone. So why not talk of them freely?"
"No, George; that would not do."
"By heavens, no! It would drive me mad; and if I know aught of you, it would hardly leave you as calm as you are now."
"As I wish to be left calm-"


"Would you? Then I suppose I ought to hold my tongue. But, Alice, I shall never have the power of speaking to you again as I speak now. Since we have been out together, we have been dear friends; is it not so?"
"And shall we not always be dear friends?"
"No, certainly not. How will it be possible? Think of it. How can I really be your friend when you are the mistress of that man's house in Cambridgeshire?"
"George!"

"I suppose I ought to hold my tongue. But, Alice, I shall never be able to speak to you again as I speak now. On this trip, we have been dear friends; is it not so?"
"And shall we not always be dear friends?"
"No, certainly not. How can we, when you are the mistress of that man's house in Cambridgeshire?"
"George!"


"I mean nothing disrespectful. I truly beg your pardon if it has seemed so. Let me say that gentleman's house;--for he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"You could not have accepted him were he not so. But how can I be your friend when you are his wife? I may still call you cousin Alice, and pat your children on the head if I chance to see them; and shall stop in the streets and shake hands with him if I meet him;--that is if my untoward fate does not induce him to cut my acquaintance;--but as for friendship, that will be over when you and I shall have parted next Thursday evening at London Bridge."
"Oh, George, don't say so!"
"But I do."

"I mean nothing disrespectful. Let me say that gentleman's house; for he is a gentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"But how can I be your friend when you are his wife? I may still call you cousin Alice, and pat your children on the head if I chance to see them; but as for friendship, that will be over when we part next Thursday at London Bridge."
"Oh, George, don't say so!"
"But I do."


"And why on Thursday? Do you mean that you won't come to Queen Anne Street any more?"
"Yes, that is what I do mean. This trip of ours has been very successful, Kate says. Perhaps Kate knows nothing about it."
"It has been very pleasant,--at least to me."
"And the pleasure has had no drawback?"
"None to me."
"It has been very pleasant to me, also;--but the pleasure has had its alloy. Alice, I have nothing to ask from you,--nothing."

"And why on Thursday? Do you mean that you won't come to Queen Anne Street any more?"
"Yes, that is what I do mean. This trip of ours has been very successful, Kate says. Perhaps Kate knows nothing about it."
"It has been very pleasant - at least, to me."
"It has been very pleasant to me, also; - but the pleasure has been mixed.


"Anything that you should ask, I would do for you."
"I have nothing to ask;--nothing. But I have one word to say."
"George, do not say it. Let me go up-stairs. Let me go to Kate."

Alice, I have nothing to ask, but I have one word to say."
"George, do not say it. Let me go upstairs to Kate."


"Certainly; if you wish it you shall go." He still held his foot against the chair which barred her passage, and did not attempt to rise as he must have done to make way for her passage out. "Certainly you shall go to Kate, if you refuse to hear me. But after all that has passed between us, after these six weeks of intimate companionship, I think you ought to listen to me. I tell you that I have nothing to ask. I am not going to make love to you."
Alice had commenced some attempt to rise, but she had again settled herself in her chair. And now, when he paused for a moment, she made no further sign that she wished to escape, nor did she say a word to intimate her further wish that he should be silent.

"Certainly; if you wish it you shall go." He did not attempt to rise and clear the way. "But after six weeks of companionship, I think you ought to listen to me. I am not going to make love to you."
Alice had begun to stand, but again sank down in her chair and waited.


"I am not going to make love to you," he said again. "As for making love, as the word goes, that must be over between you and me. It has been made and marred, and cannot be remade. It may exist, or it may have been expelled; but where it does not exist, it will never be brought back again."
"It should not be spoken of between you and me."
"So, no doubt, any proper-going duenna would say, and so, too, little children should be told; but between you and me there can be no necessity for falsehood. We have grown beyond our sugar-toothed ages, and are now men and women. I perfectly understood your breaking away from me. I understood you, and in spite of my sorrow knew that you were right. I am not going to accuse or to defend myself; but I knew that you were right."

"I am not going to make love to you," he said again. "As for love, that must be over between you and me. It has been made and marred, and cannot be remade."
"It should not be spoken of between us."
"So little children should be told; but we are adults. I perfectly understood your breaking away from me, and in spite of my sorrow I knew that you were right."


"Then let there be no more about it."
"Yes; there must be more about it. I did not understand you when you accepted Mr. Grey. Against him I have not a whisper to make. He may be perfect for aught I know. But, knowing you as I thought I did, I could not understand your loving such a man as him. It was as though one who had lived on brandy should take himself suddenly to a milk diet,--and enjoy the change! A milk diet is no doubt the best. But men who have lived on brandy can't make those changes very suddenly. They perish in the attempt."

"Then let there be no more about it."
"Yes; there must be more about it. I did not understand you when you accepted Mr. Grey. He may be perfect for all I know. But I could not understand your loving such a man as him. It was as though one who had lived on brandy should take himself suddenly to a milk diet! A milk diet is no doubt the best. But men who have lived on brandy can't make those changes suddenly. They perish in the attempt."


"Not always, George."
"It may be done with months of agony;--but there was no such agony with you."
"Who can tell?"


"But you will tell me the cure was made. I thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, in her new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet.

"You will tell me the cure was made, so I thought to find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly do me no harm. I might have loved her once - but in her new form, she could be nothing to me. I am wise enough to know how much better and happier a woman she might be; it was not that I thought you had descended in the scale; but, Alice, you do not possess those virtues. That wholesome diet of milk and honey is not your diet.


He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her?

He had spoken with great energy, but in a low voice. She was looking full at him; and that scar and his gloomy eyes seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. When he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark.
When he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song.
Were the waters telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her - had she not said it to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily - hourly - that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumed herself to have virtues which she did not possess?


This man now came and rudely told her all this,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done.
"I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk."

She sat silent and convicted.
"I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, but the same woman I had once loved - I have not been safe from you at all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk."


Mr. Palliser did not remain long in Baden after the payment of Burgo's bill. Perhaps I shall not throw any undeserved discredit on his courage if I say that he was afraid to do so. What would he have said,--what would he have been able to say, if that young man had come to him demanding an explanation? So he hurried away to Strasbourg the same day, much to his wife's satisfaction.
The journey home from thence was not marked by any incidents. Gradually Mr. Palliser became a little more lenient to his wife and slightly less oppressive in his caution. If he still inquired about the springs of the carriages, he did so in silence, and he ceased to enjoin the necessity of a day's rest after each day's journey. By the time that they reached Dover he had become so used to his wife's condition that he made but little fluttering as she walked out of the boat by that narrow gangway which is so contrived as to make an arrival there a serious inconvenience to a lady, and a nuisance even to a man. He was somewhat staggered when a big man, in the middle of the night, insisted on opening the little basket which his wife carried, and was uncomfortable when obliged to stop her on the plank while he gave up the tickets which he thought had been already surrendered; but he was becoming used to his position, and bore himself like a man.

The Pallisers did not remain long in Baden after the payment of Burgo's bill. They hurried away to Strasbourg the same day.
The journey home from there was uneventful. Gradually Mr. Palliser became a little more lenient to his wife and slightly less oppressive in his caution. By the time that they reached Dover he had become so used to his wife's condition that he made only a little fluttering as she walked out of the boat by the narrow gangway.


During their journey home Mr. Palliser had by no means kept his seat opposite to Lady Glencora with constancy. He had soon found that it was easier to talk to Mr. Grey than to his wife, and, consequently, the two ladies had been much together, as had also the two gentlemen. What the ladies discussed may be imagined. One was about to become a wife and the other a mother, and that was to be their fate after each had made up her mind that no such lot was to be hers. It may, however, be presumed that for every one word that Alice spoke Lady Glencora spoke ten. The two men, throughout these days of close intimacy, were intent upon politics. Mr. Palliser, who may be regarded as the fox who had lost his tail,--the tail being, in this instance, the comfort of domestic privacy,--was eager in recommending his new friend to cut off his tail also. "Your argument would be very well," said he, "if men were to be contented to live for themselves only."
"Your argument would be very well," said the other, "if it were used to a man who felt that he could do good to others by going into public life. But it is wholly inefficacious if it recommends public life simply or chiefly because a man may gratify his own ambition by public services."

During their journey home Mr. Palliser had soon found that it was easier to talk to Mr. Grey than to his wife, and, consequently, the two ladies were much together, as were the two gentlemen. What the ladies discussed may be imagined. One was about to become a wife and the other a mother, after each had made up her mind that neither thing would happen. It may, however, be presumed that for every word that Alice spoke Lady Glencora spoke ten.
The two men were intent upon politics. Mr. Palliser was eager in recommending public life to his new friend.
"Your argument would be very well," said Mr. Grey, "for a man who felt that he could do good to others by going into public life. But it is wholly ineffective if it recommends public life simply because a man may gratify his own ambition by public services."


"Of course there is personal gratification, and of course there is good done," said Mr. Palliser.
"Is,--or should be," said Mr. Grey.
"Exactly; and the two things must go together. The chief gratification comes from the feeling that you are of use."
"But if you feel that you would not be of use?"

"Of course there is personal gratification, and of course there is good done," said Mr. Palliser. "The two things go together. The chief gratification comes from the feeling that you are of use."
"But if you feel that you would not be of use?"


We need not follow the argument any further. We all know its nature, and what between two such men would be said on both sides. We all know that neither of them would put the matter altogether in a true light. Men never can do so in words, let the light within themselves be ever so clear. I do not think that any man yet ever had such a gift of words as to make them a perfect exponent of all the wisdom within him. But the effect was partly that which the weaker man of the two desired,--the weaker in the gifts of nature, though art had in some respects made him stronger. Mr. Grey was shaken in his quiescent philosophy, and startled Alice,--startled her as much as he delighted her,--by a word or two he said as he walked with her in the courts of the Louvre. "It's all hollow here," he said, speaking of French politics.
"Very hollow," said Alice, who had no love for the French mode of carrying on public affairs.

We need not follow the argument any further. We all know its nature. But the effect was partly that which the weaker man of the two desired - the weaker in being less gifted, though art had in some respects made him stronger. Mr. Grey was shaken in his philosophy, and startled and delighted Alice by what he said as he walked with her in the courts of the Louvre.
"It's all hollow here," he said, speaking of French politics.
"Very hollow," said Alice.


"Of all modes of governing this seems to me to be the surest of coming to a downfall. Men are told that they are wise enough to talk, but not wise enough to have any power of action. It is as though men were cautioned that they were walking through gunpowder, and that no fire could be allowed them, but were at the same time enjoined to carry lucifer matches in their pockets. I don't believe in the gunpowder, and I think there should be fire, and plenty of it; but if I didn't want the fire I wouldn't have the matches."
"It's so odd to hear you talk politics," said Alice, laughing.

"Of all modes of governing this seems to me to be the surest of coming to a downfall. Men are told that they are wise enough to talk, but not wise enough to have any power of action."
"It's so odd to hear you talk politics," said Alice, laughing.


After this he dropped the subject for a while, as though he were ashamed of it, but in a very few minutes he returned to it manfully. "Mr. Palliser wants me to go into Parliament." Upon hearing this Alice said nothing. She was afraid to speak. After all that had passed she felt that it would not become her to show much outward joy on hearing such a proposition, so spoken by him, and yet she could say nothing without some sign of exultation in her voice. So she walked on without speaking, and was conscious that her fingers trembled on his arm. "What do you say about it?" he asked.
"What do I say? Oh, John, what right can I have to say anything?"

After this he dropped the subject for a while, as though he were ashamed of it, but in a few minutes he returned to it manfully. "Mr. Palliser wants me to go into Parliament."
Alice said nothing. She was afraid to speak. After all that had passed she felt that it would not become her to show much outward joy on hearing this, and yet she could not speak without some sign of exultation in her voice. So she walked on without speaking, and was conscious that her fingers trembled on his arm.
"What do you say about it?" he asked.
"Oh, John, what right can I have to say anything?"


"No one else can have so much right,--putting aside of course myself, who must be responsible for my own actions. He asked me whether I could afford it, and he seems to think that a smaller income suffices for such work now than it did a few years since. I believe that I could afford it, if I could get a seat that was not very expensive at the first outset. He could help me there."
"On that point, of course, I can have no opinion."
"No; not on that point. I believe we may take that for granted. Living in London for four or five months in the year might be managed. But as to the mode of life!"

"No one else can have so much right. He asked me whether I could afford it. I believe that I could, if I could get a seat that was not very expensive at the first outset. He could help me there. Living in London for four or five months in the year might be managed. But as to the mode of life!"


Then Alice was unable to hold her tongue longer, and spoke out her thoughts with more vehemence than discretion. No doubt he combated them with some amount of opposition. He seldom allowed out-spoken enthusiasm to pass by him without some amount of hostility. But he was not so perverse as to be driven from his new views by the fact that Alice approved them, and she, as she drew near home, was able to think that the only flaw in his character was in process of being cured.
When they reached London they all separated. It was Mr. Palliser's purpose to take his wife down to Matching with as little delay as possible. London was at this time nearly empty, and all the doings of the season were over. It was now the first week of August, and as Parliament had not been sitting for nearly two months, the town looked as it usually looks in September. Lady Glencora was to stay but one day in Park Lane, and it had been understood between her and Alice that they were not to see each other.

Then Alice was unable to hold her tongue, and spoke her thoughts. No doubt he combated them. He seldom allowed outspoken enthusiasm to pass by him without some opposition. But he was not so perverse as to be driven from his new views by the fact that Alice approved them, and she was able to think that the only flaw in his character was in the process of being cured.
When they reached London they all separated. Mr. Palliser intended to take his wife down to Matching with as little delay as possible. London was nearly empty; it was now the first week of August, and Parliament had not been sitting for nearly two months. Lady Glencora was to stay only one day in Park Lane, and she and Alice would not see each other.


"How odd it is parting in this way, when people have been together so long," said Lady Glencora. "It always seems as though there had been a separate little life of its own which was now to be brought to a close. I suppose, Mr. Grey, you and I, when we next meet, will be far too distant to fight with each other."
"I hope that may never be the case," said Mr. Grey.
"I suppose nothing would prevent his fighting; would it Alice? But, remember, there must be no fighting when we do meet next, and that must be in September."
"With all my heart," said Mr. Grey. But Alice said nothing.

"How odd it is parting in this way, when people have been together so long," said Lady Glencora. "It seems as though the time had a separate little life of its own which is now brought to a close."


Then Mr. Palliser made his little speech. "Alice," he said, as he gave his hand to Miss Vavasor, "give my compliments to your father, and tell him that I shall take the liberty of asking him to come down to Matching for the early shooting in September, and that I shall expect him to bring you with him. You may tell him also that he will have to stay to see you off, but that he will not be allowed to take you away." Lady Glencora thought that this was very pretty as coming from her husband, and so she told him on their way home.

"Alice," said Mr. Palliser, as he gave her his hand, "give my compliments to your father, and tell him that I shall invite him to come down to Matching for the shooting in September, and that I shall expect him to bring you. You may tell him also that he will have to stay to see you off after your marriage, but that he will not be allowed to take you away." Lady Glencora thought that this was very prettily put, and so she told her husband on their way home.


Alice insisted on going to Queen Anne Street in a cab by herself. Mr. Palliser had offered a carriage, and Mr. Grey, of course, offered himself as a protector; but she would have neither the one nor the other. If he had gone with her he might by chance have met her father, and she was most anxious that she should not be encumbered by her lover's presence when she first received her father's congratulations. They had slept at Dover, and had come up by a mid-day train. When she reached Queen Anne Street, the house was desolate, and she might therefore have allowed Mr. Grey to attend her. But she found a letter waiting for her which made her for the moment forget both him and her father. Lady Macleod, at Cheltenham, was very ill, and wished to see her niece, as she said, before she died. "I have got your letter," said the kind old woman, "and am now quite happy. It only wanted that to reconcile me to my departure. I thought through it all that my girl would be happy at last.

Alice insisted on going to Queen Anne Street in a cab by herself. She wished to be alone when she first received her father's congratulations. But when she reached Queen Anne Street, the house was desolate. She found a letter waiting for her which made her forget everything else. Lady Macleod, at Cheltenham, was very ill, and wished to see her niece before she died.
"I have got your letter," said the kind old woman, "and am now quite happy, because my girl will be happy at last.


Will she forgive me if I say that I have forgiven her?" The letter then went on to beg Alice to come to Cheltenham at once. "It is not that I am dying now," said Lady Macleod, "though you will find me much altered and keeping my bed. But the doctor says he fears the first cold weather. I know what that means, my dear; and if I don't see you now, before your marriage, I shall never see you again. Pray get married as soon as you can. I want to know that you are Mrs. Grey before I go. If I were to hear that it was postponed because of my illness, I think it would kill me at once."

Will she forgive me if I say that I have forgiven her?" The letter then went on to beg Alice to come to Cheltenham at once. "It is not that I am dying now," said Lady Macleod, "though you will find me much altered and keeping my bed. But the doctor says he fears the first cold weather. I know what that means, my dear; and if I don't see you now, before your marriage, I shall never see you again. Pray get married as soon as you can. I want to know that you are Mrs. Grey before I go."


There was another letter for her from Kate, full, of course, of congratulations, and promising to be at the wedding; "that is," said Kate, "unless it takes place at the house of some one of your very grand friends;" and telling her that aunt Greenow was to be married in a fortnight;--telling her of this, and begging her to attend that wedding. "You should stand by your family," said Kate. "And only think what my condition will be if I have no one here to support me. Do come. Journeys are nothing nowadays. Don't you know I would go seven times the distance for you? Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield are friends after all, and Mr. Cheesacre is to be best man. Is it not beautiful? As for poor me, I'm told I haven't a chance left of becoming mistress of Oileymead and all its wealth."

There was another letter for her from Kate, full of congratulations, and promising to be at the wedding; "that is," said Kate, "unless it takes place at the house of some of your very grand friends;" and also telling her that aunt Greenow was to be married in a fortnight, and begging her to attend that wedding. "Do come," said Kate. "Journeys are nothing nowadays. Don't you know I would go seven times the distance for you? Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield are friends again, and Mr. Cheesacre is to be best man. Is it not beautiful? As for poor me, I'm told I haven't a chance left of becoming mistress of Oileymead. "


Alice began to think that her hands were almost too full. If she herself were to be married in September, even by the end of September, her hands were very full indeed. Yet she did not know how to refuse any of the requests made to her. As to Lady Macleod, her visit to her was a duty which must of course be performed at once. She would stay but one day in London, and then go down to Cheltenham. Having resolved upon this she at once wrote to her aunt to that effect. As to that other affair down in Westmoreland, she sighed as she thought of it, but she feared that she must go there also. Kate had suffered too much on her behalf to allow of her feeling indifferent to such a request.

Alice began to think that her hands were almost too full. Yet she did not know how to refuse any of the requests. She must of course visit Lady Macleod at once. She would stay one day in London, and then go down to Cheltenham. As to that wedding in Westmorland, she sighed as she thought of it, but she feared that she must go there also, for Kate's sake.


Then her father came in. "I didn't in the least know when you might arrive," said he, beginning with an apology for his absence. "How could I, my dear?" Alice scorned to remind him that she herself had named the precise hour of the train by which they had arrived. "It's all right, papa," said she. "I was very glad to have an hour to write a letter or two. Poor Lady Macleod is very ill. I must go to her the day after to-morrow."

Then her father came in. "I didn't know when you might arrive," said he apologetically.
Alice refrained from reminding him that she had told him the precise time of the train.
"It's all right, papa. I was very glad to have an hour to write a letter or two. Poor Lady Macleod is very ill. I must go to her the day after tomorrow."


"Dear, dear, dear! I had heard that she was poorly. She is very old, you know. So, Alice, you've made it all square with Mr. Grey at last?"
"Yes, papa;--if you call that square."
"Well; I do call it square. It has all come round to the proper thing."
"I hope he thinks so."
"What do you think yourself, my dear?"
"I've no doubt it's the proper thing for me, papa."

"Dear, dear! I had heard that she was poorly. So, Alice, you've made it all square with Mr. Grey at last?"
"Yes, papa."


"Of course not; of course not; and I can tell you this, Alice, he is a man in a thousand. You've heard about the money?"
"What money, papa?"
"The money that George had." As the reader is aware, Alice had heard nothing special about this money. She only knew, or supposed she knew, that she had given three thousand pounds to her cousin. But now her father explained to her the whole transaction. "We couldn't have realized your money for months, perhaps," said he; "but Grey knew that some men must have rope enough before they can hang themselves."

"Well; I can tell you this, Alice, he is a man in a thousand. You've heard about the money?"
"What money, papa?"
"The money that George had." As the reader is aware, Alice had heard nothing about this money. She thought that she had given three thousand pounds to her cousin. But now her father explained the whole transaction.
"Grey knew that some men must have rope enough before they can hang themselves," he said.


Alice was unable to say anything on this subject to her father, but to herself she did declare that not in that way or with that hope had John Grey produced his money. "He must be paid, papa," she said. "Paid!" he answered; "he can pay himself now. It may make some difference in the settlements, perhaps, but he and the lawyers may arrange that. I shan't think of interfering with such a man as Grey. If you could only know, my dear, what I've suffered!" Alice in a penitential tone expressed her sorrow, and then he too assured her that he had forgiven her. "Bless you, my child!" he said, "and make you happy, and good, and--and--and very comfortable."

"Mr. Grey must be paid, papa," she said.
"Paid! He can pay himself now. It may make some difference in the settlements, but he and the lawyers can arrange that. I shan't think of interfering. If you could only know, my dear, what I've suffered!" Alice expressed her sorrow, and he assured her that he had forgiven her. "Bless you, my child!" he said, "and make you happy, and good - and very comfortable."


After that he went back to his club.
Alice made her journey down to Cheltenham without any adventure, and was received by Lady Macleod with open arms. "Dearest Alice, it is so good of you." "Good!" said Alice, "would I not have gone a thousand miles to you?"
Lady Macleod was very eager to know all about the coming marriage. "I can tell you now, my dear, though I couldn't do it before, that I knew he'd persist for ever. He told me so himself in confidence."
"He has persisted, aunt; that is certain."

After that he went back to his club.
Alice travelled down to Cheltenham, and was received by Lady Macleod with open arms. The old lady was very eager to know all about the coming marriage.
"I knew he'd persist for ever, my dear. He told me so himself in confidence."
"He has persisted, aunt, certainly."


"And I hope you'll reward him. A beautiful woman without discretion is like a pearl in a swine's snout; but a good wife is a crown of glory to her husband. Remember that, my dear, and choose your part for his sake."
"I won't be that unfortunate pearl, if I can help it, aunt."
"We can all help it, if we set about it in the right way. And Alice, you must be careful to find out all his likes and his dislikes. Dear me! I remember how hard I found it, but then I don't think I was so clever as you are."
"Sometimes I think nobody has ever been so stupid as I have."

"And I hope you'll reward him. A beautiful woman without discretion is like a pearl in a swine's snout; but a good wife is a crown of glory to her husband. Remember that, my dear."
"I won't be that unfortunate pearl, if I can help it, aunt."
"And Alice, you must be careful to find out all his likes and dislikes. Dear me! I remember how hard I found it, but then I don't think I was so clever as you are."
"Sometimes I think nobody has ever been so stupid as I have."


"Not stupid, my dear; if I must say the word, it is self-willed. But, dear, all that is forgiven now. Is it not?"
"There is a forgiveness which it is rather hard to get," said Alice.
There was something said then as to the necessity of looking for pardon beyond this world, which I need not here repeat. To all her old friend's little sermons Alice was infinitely more attentive than had been her wont, so that Lady Macleod was comforted and took heart of grace, and at last brought forth from under her pillow a letter from the Countess of Midlothian, which she had received a day or two since, and which bore upon Alice's case. "I was not quite sure whether I'd show it you," said Lady Macleod, "because you wouldn't answer her when she wrote to you. But when I'm gone, as I shall be soon, she will be the nearest relative you have on your mother's side, and from her great position, you know, Alice--" But here Alice became impatient for the letter. Her aunt handed it to her, and she read as follows:--
Castle Reekie, July, 186--.

"Not stupid, my dear; self-willed, perhaps. But all that is forgiven now. Is it not?"
"There is a forgiveness which it is rather hard to get," said Alice.
Her aunt said something about looking for pardon beyond this world, which I need not here repeat. Alice was much more attentive than usual to her old friend's little sermons, so that Lady Macleod took heart, and at last brought forth a letter from the Countess of Midlothian, which she had received a day or two since.
"I was not quite sure whether I'd show it you," said Lady Macleod, "because you wouldn't answer her when she wrote to you. But when I'm gone, she will be your nearest relative on your mother's side, you know, Alice."
The letter was as follows:


DEAR LADY MACLEOD,--
I am sorry to hear of the symptoms you speak about. I strongly advise you to depend chiefly on beef-tea. They should be very careful to send it up quite free from grease, and it should not be too strong of the meat. There should be no vegetables in it. Not soup, you know, but beef-tea. If any thing acts upon your strength, that will. I need not tell one who has lived as you have done where to look for that other strength which alone can support you at such a time as this. I would go to you if I thought that my presence would be any comfort to you, but I know how sensitive you are, and the shock might be too much for you.

Dear Lady Macleod,-
I am sorry to hear of your symptoms. I strongly advise you to depend chiefly on beef-tea. They should be very careful to send it up quite free from grease, and there should be no vegetables in it. I would go to you if I thought that my presence would be any comfort to you, but I know how sensitive you are, and the shock might be too much for you.


If you see Alice Vavasor on her return to England, as you probably will, pray tell her from me that I give her my warmest congratulations, and that I am heartily glad that matters are arranged. I think she treated my attempts to heal the wound in a manner that they did not deserve; but all that shall be forgiven, as shall also her original bad behaviour to poor Mr. Grey.
Alice was becoming weary of so much forgiveness, and told herself, as she was reading the letter, that that of Lady Midlothian was at any rate unnecessary. "I trust that we may yet meet and be friends," continued Lady Midlothian. "I am extremely gratified at finding that she has been thought so much of by Mr. Palliser. I'm told that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey have become great friends, and if this is so, Alice must be happy to feel that she has had it in her power to confer so great a benefit on her future husband as he will receive from this introduction." "I ain't a bit happy, and I have conferred no benefit on Mr. Grey," exclaimed Alice, who was unable to repress the anger occasioned by the last paragraph.
"But it is a great benefit, my dear."
"Mr. Palliser has every bit as much cause to be gratified for that as Mr. Grey, and perhaps more."

If you see Alice Vavasor on her return to England, pray tell her from me that I give her my warmest congratulations, and that I am heartily glad that matters are arranged. I think she treated my attempts to heal the wound in a manner that they did not deserve; but all that shall be forgiven, as shall also her original bad behaviour to poor Mr. Grey.
I trust that we may yet meet and be friends. I am extremely gratified at finding that she has been thought so much of by Mr. Palliser. I'm told that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey have become great friends, and if this is so, Alice must be happy to feel that she has had it in her power to confer so great a benefit on her future husband as he will receive from this introduction.
"I ain't a bit happy, and I have conferred no benefit on Mr. Grey," exclaimed Alice, unable to repress her anger at the last paragraph.
"But it is a great benefit, my dear."
"Mr. Palliser has every bit as much cause to be gratified as Mr. Grey, and perhaps more."


Poor Lady Macleod could not argue the matter in her present state. She merely sighed, and moved her shrivelled old hand up and down upon the counterpane. Alice finished the letter without further remarks. It merely went on to say how happy the writer would be to know something of her cousin as Mrs. Grey, as also to know something of Mr. Grey, and then gave a general invitation to both Mr. and Mrs. Grey, asking them to come to Castle Reekie whenever they might be able. The Marchioness, with whom Lady Midlothian was staying, had expressly desired her to give this message. Alice, however, could not but observe that Lady Midlothian's invitation applied only to another person's house.
"I'm sure she means well," said Alice.
"Indeed she does," said Lady Macleod, "and then you know you'll probably have children; and think what a thing it will be for them to know the Midlothian family. You shouldn't rob them of their natural advantages."

Poor Lady Macleod could not argue. She merely sighed, and moved her shrivelled old hand up and down upon the counterpane.
Alice finished the letter without further remarks. It merely went on to say how happy the writer would be to see her cousin as Mrs. Grey, and gave a general invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Grey to come to Castle Reekie whenever they might be able.
"I'm sure she means well," said Alice.
"Indeed she does," said Lady Macleod.


Alice remained a week with her aunt, and went from thence direct to Westmoreland. Some order as to bridal preparations we must presume she gave on that single day which she passed in London. Much advice she had received on this head from Lady Glencora, and no inconsiderable amount of assistance was to be rendered to her at Matching during the fortnight she would remain there before her marriage. Something also, let us hope, she might do at Cheltenham. Something no doubt she did do. Something also might probably be achieved among the wilds in Westmoreland, but that something would necessarily be of a nature not requiring fashionable tradespeople. While at Cheltenham, she determined that she would not again return to London before her marriage. This resolve was caused by a very urgent letter from Mr. Grey, and by another, almost equally urgent, from Lady Glencora. If the marriage did not take place in September she would not be present at it. The gods of the world,--of Lady Glencora's world,--had met together and come to a great decision.

Alice remained a week with her aunt, and went from there direct to Westmorland. On her single day in London, we must presume she gave some order about bridal preparations; and she had a very urgent letter from Glencora. If the marriage did not take place in September she would not be present at it. It had


Lady Glencora was to be removed in October to Gatherum Castle, and remain there till the following spring, so that the heir might, in truth, be born in the purple. "It is such a bore," said Lady Glencora, "and I know it will be a girl. But the Duke isn't to be there, except for the Christmas week." An invitation for the ceremony at Matching had been sent from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Vavasor, and another from Lady Glencora to Kate, "whom I long to know," said her ladyship, "and with whom I should like to pick a crow, if I dared, as I'm sure she did all the mischief."

 been decided that Lady Glencora was to be moved in October to Gatherum Castle, and remain there till the following spring, so that the heir would be born there.
"It is such a bore," said Lady Glencora, "and I know it will be a girl. But the Duke isn't to be there, except for the Christmas week."
An invitation for the wedding ceremony at Matching had been sent from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Vavasor, and another from Lady Glencora to Kate, "whom I long to know," said her ladyship, "and with whom I should like to pick an argument, if I dared, as I'm sure she did all the mischief."


One morning, early in May, a full week before Alice's visit to the bankers' at Charing Cross, a servant in grand livery, six feet high, got out of a cab at the door in Queen Anne Street, and sent up a note for Miss Vavasor, declaring that he would wait in the cab for her answer. He had come from Lady Glencora, and had been specially ordered to go in a cab and come back in a cab, and make himself as like a Mercury, with wings to his feet, as may be possible to a London footman. Mr. Palliser had arranged his plans with his wife that morning,--or, I should more correctly say, had given her his orders, and she, in consequence, had sent away her Mercury in hot pressing haste to Queen Anne Street. "Do come;--instantly if you can," the note said. "I have so much to tell you, and so much to ask of you. If you can't come, when shall I find you, and where?" Alice sent back a note, saying that she would be in Park Lane as soon as she could put on her bonnet and walk down; and then the Mercury went home in his cab.

One morning in May, before Alice's visit to the bank, a servant in grand livery got out of a cab in Queen Anne Street, and sent up a note for Miss Vavasor, declaring that he would wait for her answer. He had come from Lady Glencora, for Mr. Palliser had arranged his plans with his wife that morning.
"Do come - instantly if you can," the note said. "I have so much to tell you, and so much to ask of you." Alice sent back a note, saying that she would be in Park Lane as soon as she could put on her bonnet and walk down.


Alice found her friend in the small breakfast-room up-stairs, sitting close by the window. They had not as yet met since the evening of Lady Monk's party, nor had Lady Glencora seen Alice in the mourning which she now wore for her grandfather. "Oh, dear, what a change it makes in you," she said. "I never thought of your being in black."
"I don't know what it is you want, but shan't I do in mourning as well as I would in colours?"
"You'll do in anything, dear. But I have so much to tell you, and I don't know how to begin. And I've so much to ask of you, and I'm so afraid you won't do it."
"You generally find me very complaisant."

Alice found her friend in the small breakfast-room upstairs, sitting by the window. They had not met since the evening of Lady Monk's party, nor had Lady Glencora seen Alice in the mourning which she now wore for her grandfather.
"Oh, dear," she said. "I never thought of your being in black."
"I don't know what you want, but shan't I do in mourning as well as I would in colours?"
"You'll do in anything, dear. But I have so much to tell you.


"No I don't, dear. It is very seldom you will do anything for me. But I must tell you everything first. Do take your bonnet off, for I shall be hours in doing it."
"Hours in telling me!"
"Yes; and in getting your consent to what I want you to do. But I think I'll tell you that first. I'm to be taken abroad immediately."
"Who is to take you?"


"Ah, you may well ask that. If you could know what questions I have asked myself on that head! I sometimes say things to myself as though they were the most proper and reasonable things in the world, and then within an hour or two I hate myself for having thought of them."
"But why don't you answer me? Who is going abroad with you?"
"Well; you are to be one of the party."
"I!"
"Yes; you. When I have named so very respectable a chaperon for my youth, of course you will understand that my husband is to take us."
"But Mr. Palliser can't leave London at this time of the year?"

"Ah, you may well ask. If you could know what questions I have asked myself on that head! But you are to be one of the party."
"I!"
"Yes; you. So of course you will understand that my husband is to take us."
"But Mr. Palliser can't leave London at this time of the year!"


"That's just it. He is to leave London at this time of the year. Don't look in that way, for it's all settled. Whether you go with me or not, I've got to go. To-day is Tuesday. We are to be off next Tuesday night, if you can make yourself ready. We shall breakfast in Paris on Wednesday morning, and then it will be to us all just as if we were in a new world. Mr. Palliser will walk up and down the new court of the Louvre, and you will be on his left arm, and I shall be on his right,--just like English people,--and it will be the most proper thing that ever was seen in life. Then we shall go on to Basle"--Alice shuddered as Basle was mentioned, thinking of the balcony over the river--"and so to Lucerne--. But no; that was the first plan, and Mr. Palliser altered it.

"That's just it. He is to leave London. Don't look like that, for it's all settled. Whether you come or not, I've got to go in one week from now, on Tuesday evening, if you can make yourself ready. We shall breakfast in Paris on Wednesday morning, and we shall be in a new world. Mr. Palliser will walk up and down the Louvre, with you on his left arm, and I on his right, and it will be the most proper thing that ever was seen. Then we shall go on to Basle" - Alice shuddered, thinking of the balcony over the river - "and so to Lucerne. But no; that was the first plan, and Mr. Palliser altered it.


He spent a whole day up here with maps and Bradshaw's and Murray's guide-books, and he scolded me so because I didn't care whether we went first to Baden or to some other place. How could I care? I told him I would go anywhere he chose to take me. Then he told me I was heartless;--and I acknowledged that I was heartless. 'I am heartless,' I said. 'Tell me something I don't know.'"
"Oh, Cora, why did you say that?"

He spent a whole day with maps and guide-books, and scolded me because I didn't care whether we went first to Baden or somewhere else. How could I care? I told him I would go anywhere he chose to take me. Then he told me I was heartless; and I agreed. 'I am heartless,' I said. 'Tell me something I don't know.'"
"Oh, Cora, why did you say that?"


"I didn't choose to contradict my husband. Besides, it's true. Then he threw the Bradshaw away, and all the maps flew about. So I picked them up again, and said we'd go to Switzerland first. I knew that would settle it, and of course he decided on stopping at Baden. If he had said Jericho, it would have been the same thing to me. Wouldn't you like to go to Jericho?"
"I should have no special objection to Jericho."
"But you are to go to Baden instead."

"I didn't choose to contradict my husband. Besides, it's true. Then he threw the guide-book away, and all the maps flew about. So I picked them up again, and said we'd go to Switzerland first. If he had said Jericho, it would have been all the same to me. Wouldn't you like to go to Jericho?"
"I should have no special objection to Jericho."
"But you are to go to Baden instead."


"I've said nothing about that yet. But you have not told me half your story. Why is Mr. Palliser going abroad in the middle of Parliament in this way?"
"Ah; now I must go back to the beginning. And indeed, Alice, I hardly know how to tell you; not that I mind you knowing it, only there are some things that won't get themselves told. You can hardly guess what it is that he is giving up. You must swear that you won't repeat what I'm going to tell you now?"
"I'm not a person apt to tell secrets, but I shan't swear anything."

"I've not agreed yet. But you have not told me half your story. Why is Mr. Palliser going abroad in the middle of Parliament?"
"Ah; now I must go back to the beginning. And indeed, Alice, I scarcely know how to tell you. You can hardly guess what he is giving up. You must swear that you won't repeat what I'm going to say?"
"I don't tell secrets."


"What a woman you are for discretion! it is you that ought to be Chancellor of the Exchequer; you are so wise. Only you haven't brought your own pigs to the best market, after all."
"Never mind my own pigs now, Cora."
"I do mind them, very much. But the secret is this. They have asked Mr. Palliser to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he has--refused. Think of that!"
"But why?"

"Well, they have asked Mr. Palliser to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he has - refused. Think of that!"
"But why?"


"Because of me,--of me, and my folly, and wickedness, and abominations. Because he has been fool enough to plague himself with a wife--he who of all men ought to have kept himself free from such troubles. Oh, he has been so good! It is almost impossible to make any one understand it. If you could know how he has longed for this office;--how he has worked for it day and night, wearing his eyes out with figures when everybody else has been asleep, shutting himself up with such creatures as Mr. Bott when other men have been shooting and hunting and flirting and spending their money. He has been a slave to it for years,--all his life I believe,--in order that he might sit in the Cabinet, and be a minister and a Chancellor of the Exchequer. He has hoped and feared, and has been, I believe, sometimes half-mad with expectation. This has been his excitement,--what racing and gambling are to other men. At last, the place was there, ready for him, and they offered it to him. They begged him to take it, almost on their knees.

"Because of me, and my folly, and wickedness. Because he has been fool enough to plague himself with a wife. Oh, he has been so good! If you knew how he has longed for the position - how he has worked for it day and night, wearing his eyes out when everybody else has been asleep, shutting himself up with such creatures as Mr. Bott. He has been a slave to it for years, in order that he might sit in the Cabinet, and be Chancellor of the Exchequer. This has been his excitement - what racing and gambling are to other men. At last, the place was open, and they offered it to him. They begged him to take it.


The Duke of St. Bungay was here all one morning about it; but Mr. Palliser sent him away, and refused the place. It's all over now, and the other man, whom they all hate so much, is to remain in."
"But why did he refuse it?"
"I keep on telling you--because of me. He found that I wanted looking after, and that Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott between them couldn't do it."
"Oh, Cora! how can you talk in that way?"

The Duke of St. Bungay was here one morning about it; but Mr. Palliser refused. It's all over now, and the other man is to remain in."
"But why did he refuse it?"
"I keep telling you - because of me. He found that I wanted looking after, and that Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott between them couldn't do it."
"Oh, Cora! how can you talk in that way?"