She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a step that was quite light in its gaiety, she almost felt that she was already cozened.

She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a light step, she almost felt that she was already tricked.


Let Burgo's troubles be as heavy as they might be, there was something to him ecstatic in the touch of ready money which always cured them for the moment.

There was always something ecstatic to Burgo in the touch of ready money which cured his troubles for the moment.

Chapter 49: How Lady Glencora Went to Lady Monk's Party


[Illustration: "All right," said Burgo, as he thrust the money into his breast-pocket.]


On the morning of Lady Monk's party a few very uncomfortable words passed between Mr. Palliser and his wife.


"Then you can give Mrs. Marsham a seat in your carriage?"


I thought I had told you that I had promised my cousin Jane."


"Indeed I can't,--unless you would like me to sit out with the coachman."

"Indeed I can't - unless you would like me to sit with the coachman."


There was something in this,--a tone of loudness, a touch of what he called to himself vulgarity,--which made him very angry.

There was a touch of what he called vulgarity in this which made him very angry.


So he turned away from her, and looked as black as a thundercloud.


"You must know, Plantagenet," she went on, "that it is impossible for three women dressed to go out in one carriage.

"You must know, Plantagenet," she went on, "that it is impossible for three women in evening dress to fit in one carriage."


I am sure you wouldn't like to see me afterwards if I had been one of them."


"You need not have said anything to Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused.

"You need not have asked Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused."


"And I had told you that I liked going with young women, and not with old ones.


"Glencora, I wish you would not use such expressions."


Quite as good as Mr. Bott's, when he said in the House the other night that the Government kept their accounts in a higgledy-piggledy way.


You see, I have been studying the debates, and you shouldn't be angry with me."


Then, I suppose, the carriage must go for Mrs. Marsham after it has taken you?"


Jane will not be in a hurry, and I am sure I shall not."


"She will think you very uncivil; that is all.


I told her that she could go with you when I heard that Miss Vavasor was not to be there."


"Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn't have told her so, and that's the long--; but I mustn't say that.

"Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn't have told her so.


The truth is this, if you give me any orders I'll obey them,--as far as I can.

If you give me any orders I'll obey them - as far as I can.


But if I'm left to go by my own judgement, it's not fair that I should be scolded afterwards."


"Then, if it's only what she thinks, I don't care two straws about it.


She may have the carriage to herself if she likes, but she shan't have me in it,--not unless I'm ordered to go.


I don't like her, and I won't pretend to like her.


My belief is that she follows me about to tell you if she thinks that I do wrong."


"And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing,--only he goes to her because he doesn't dare to go to you."

"And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing - only he goes to her because he doesn't dare to go to you."


Plantagenet Palliser was struck wild with dismay.


He understood well who it was whom his wife intended to describe; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible to his mind!

He understood well whom his wife meant; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible!


He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife.


And the picture she had drawn was very distressing to him.


She had no mother; neither had he; and he had wished that Mrs. Marsham should give to her some of that matronly assistance and guidance which a mother does give to her young married daughter.


It was true, too, as he knew, that a word or two as to some socially domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr. Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what counsel it was needful that he should give.

It was true that a word or two about domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr. Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what advice he should give.


As for espionage over his wife,--no man could despise it more than he did!

As for spying on his wife - no man could despise it more than he did!


No man would be less willing to resort to it!


And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies, both male and female.

And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies.


he said again; and then he stopped, not knowing what to say to her.


"Well, my dear, it's better you should know at once what I feel about it.


I don't suppose I'm very good; indeed I dare say I'm bad enough, but these people about me won't make me any better.


The duennas don't make the Spanish ladies worth much."


After that, Lady Glencora sat herself down, and Mr. Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.

Lady Glencora sat down, and Mr. Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.


It ended in his making her a long speech, in which he said a good deal of his own justice and forbearance, and something also of her frivolity and childishness.


He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace,--not to him, but to herself, as though saying to herself that that was all he knew about it.

He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace to herself, as if to say it was more than that.


He did not notice it, or, if he did, his notice did not stop his eloquence.

He did not notice it, or, if he did, it did not stop his eloquence.


He assured her that he was far from keeping any watch over her, and declared that she had altogether mistaken Mrs. Marsham's character.


At that, there was another little grimace.


"There's somebody has mistaken it worse than I have," the grimace said.


Of the bristly baboon he condescended to say nothing, and he wound up by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk's.

He ended by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk's.


When the evening came,--or rather the night,--the carriage went first for Mrs. Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk's, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora.

When the evening came, the carriage went first for Mrs. Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk's, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora.


Then she had herself driven to St. James's Square, to pick up Lady Jane, so that altogether the coachman and horses did not have a good time of it.


"I wish he'd keep a separate carriage for her," Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane,--having perceived that her servants were not in a good humour.

"I wish he'd keep a separate carriage for her," Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane.


"That would be expensive," said Lady Jane.


"Yes, it would be expensive," said Lady Glencora. She would not condescend to make any remark as to the non-importance of such expense to a man so wealthy as her husband, knowing that his wealth was, in fact, hers.

"Yes, it would," said Lady Glencora, not deigning to remark that her husband's wealth was, in fact, hers.


Never to him or to any other,--not even to herself,--had she hinted that much was due to her because she had been magnificent as an heiress.

She put on no airs because she was an heiress.


There were many things about this woman that were not altogether what a husband might wish.


She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but in disposition and temper she was altogether generous.

She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but she was altogether generous.


I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it she would have been a thorough gentleman.

I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it, she would have been a thorough gentleman.


Mrs. Marsham was by no means satisfied with the way in which she was treated.

Mrs. Marsham was by no means satisfied with the way she was treated.


She would not have cared to go at all to Lady Monk's party had she supposed that she would have to make her entry there alone. With Lady Glencora she would have seemed to receive some of that homage which would certainly have been paid to her companion.

She would not have cared to go to Lady Monk's party if she had known that she would have to make her entry there alone, without a share of the homage which would certainly have been paid to Lady Glencora.


The carriage called, moreover, before she was fully ready, and the footman, as he stood at the door to hand her in, had been very sulky.


She knew that Lady Glencora had positively declined her companionship; and if she resolved to be revenged, such resolution on her part was only natural.

If she resolved to be revenged, such resolution was only natural.


When she reached Lady Monk's house, she had to make her way up stairs all alone.

When she reached Lady Monk's house, she had to make her way upstairs all alone.


The servants called her Mrs. Marsh, and under that name she got passed on into the front drawing-room. There she sat down, not having seen Lady Monk, and meditated over her injuries.

She sat down in the front drawing room, and meditated on her injuries.


It was past eleven before Lady Glencora arrived, and Burgo Fitzgerald had begun to think that his evil stars intended that he should never see her again.


He had been wickedly baulked at Monkshade, by what influence he had never yet ascertained; and now he thought that the same influence must be at work to keep her again away from his aunt's house.


He had settled in his mind no accurate plan of a campaign; he had in his thoughts no fixed arrangement by which he might do the thing which he meditated.


He had attempted to make some such plan; but, as is the case with all men to whom thinking is an unusual operation, concluded at last that he had better leave it to the course of events.

He had attempted to make a plan; but, like all men to whom thinking is unusual, concluded at last that he had better leave it to the course of events.


It was, however, obviously necessary that he should see Lady Glencora before the course of events could be made to do anything for him.

It was, however, necessary that he should see Lady Glencora before the course of events could do anything for him.


He had written to her, making his proposition in bold terms, and he felt that if she were utterly decided against him, her anger at his suggestion, or at least her refusal, would have been made known to him in some way. Silence did not absolutely give consent, but it seemed to show that consent was not impossible.

He had written to her boldly, and he felt that her silence seemed to show that consent was not impossible.


From ten o'clock to past eleven he stood about on the staircase of his aunt's house, waiting for the name which he was desirous of hearing, and which he almost feared to hear.

From ten o'clock to past eleven he stood about on the staircase, waiting for the name which he desired yet almost feared to hear.


Men spoke to him, and women also, but he hardly answered.


His aunt once called him into her room, and with a cautionary frown on her brow, bade him go dance.

His aunt once called him into her room, and with a frown told him to go and dance.


"Don't look so dreadfully preoccupied," she said to him in a whisper.


But he shook his head at her, almost savagely, and went away, and did not dance.

But he shook his head almost savagely, and went away.


How was he to dance with such an enterprise as that upon his mind?


Even to Burgo Fitzgerald the task of running away with another man's wife had in it something which prevented dancing.


Lady Monk was older, and was able to regulate her feelings with more exactness.


But Burgo, though he could not dance, went down into the dining-room and drank.

Instead he went down into the dining-room and drank.


He took a large beer-glass full of champagne and soon after that another.

He took a large beer-glass full of champagne and then another.


The drink did not flush his cheeks or make his forehead red, or bring out the sweat-drops on his brow, as it does with some men; but it added a peculiar brightness to his blue eyes.

The drink did not flush his cheeks, but it added a peculiar brightness to his blue eyes.


It was by the light of his eyes that men knew when Burgo had been drinking.


At last, while he was still in the supper room, he heard Lady Glencora's name announced.

At last, while he was in the supper room, he heard Lady Glencora's name announced.


He had already seen Mr. Palliser come in and make his way up-stairs some quarter of an hour before; but as to that he was indifferent.

He had already seen Mr. Palliser come in and make his way upstairs a quarter of an hour before.


He had known that the husband was to be there.


When the long-expected name reached his ears, his heart seemed to jump within him.

When the long-expected name now reached his ears, his heart seemed to jump.


What, on the spur of the moment, should he do?


As he had resolved that he would be doing,--that something should be done, let it be what it might,--he hurried to the dining-room door, and was just in time to see and be seen as Lady Glencora was passing up the stairs.

He hurried to the dining-room door, just in time to see and be seen as Lady Glencora was passing up the stairs.


She was just above him as he got himself out into the hall, so that he could not absolutely greet her with his hand; but he looked up at her, and caught her eye. He looked up, and moved his hand to her in token of salutation.

He looked up at her, and caught her eye, and moved his hand in salutation.


She looked down at him, and the expression of her face altered visibly as her glance met his.

She looked down at him, and her expression altered visibly as her glance met his.


She barely bowed to him,--with her eyes rather than with her head, but he flattered himself that there was, at any rate, no anger in her countenance.

She barely bowed to him, but he thought there was, at any rate, no anger in her face.


How beautiful he was as he gazed up at her, leaning against the wall as he stood, and watching her as she made her slow way up the stairs!

How beautiful he was as he gazed up at her, leaning against the wall and watching her as she made her slow way up the stairs!


She felt that his eyes were on her, and where the stairs turned she could not restrain herself from one other glance.


As her eyes fell on his again, his mouth opened, and she fancied that she could hear the faint sigh that he uttered.

As her eyes fell on his again, his mouth opened, and she fancied that she could hear a faint sigh.


It was a glorious mouth, such as the old sculptors gave to their marble gods!


And Burgo, if it was so that he had not heart enough to love truly, could look as though he loved.

Burgo, though he had not heart enough to love truly, could look as though he loved.


It was not in him deceit,--or what men call acting.


The expression came to him naturally, though it expressed so much more than there was within; as strong words come to some men who have no knowledge that they are speaking strongly.


At this moment Burgo Fitzgerald looked as though it were possible that he might die of love.

At this moment he looked as though he might die of love.


Lady Glencora was met at the top of the stairs by Lady Monk, who came out to her, almost into the gallery, with her sweetest smile,--so that the newly-arrived guest, of course, entered into the small room.

Lady Glencora was met at the top of the stairs by Lady Monk, who came out to her with her sweetest smile.


There sat the Duchess of St. Bungay on her stool in the corner, and there, next to the Duchess, but at the moment engaged in no conversation, stood Mr. Bott.

Lady Glencora entered the small room, where sat the Duchess of St. Bungay, with Mr. Bott standing next to her.


There was another lady there, who stood very high in the world, and whom Lady Monk was very glad to welcome--the young Marchioness of Hartletop.

There was another lady there, who stood very high in the world, and whom Lady Monk was very glad to welcome - the young Marchioness of Hartletop.


She was in slight mourning; for her father-in-law, the late Marquis, had died no t yet quite six months since.


Very beautiful she was, and one whose presence at their houses ladies and gentlemen prized alike. She never said silly things, like the Duchess, never was troublesome as to people's conduct to her, was always gracious, yet was never led away into intimacies, was without peer the best-dressed woman in London, and yet gave herself no airs;--and then she was so exquisitely beautiful.

Very beautiful she was, and never said silly things, was always gracious, yet was never led away into intimacies, was the best-dressed woman in London, and yet gave herself no airs - and she was exquisitely beautiful.


There were, indeed, people who said that it meant nothing; but then, what should the smile of a young married woman mean?


She had not been born in the purple, like Lady Glencora, her father being a country clergyman who had never reached a higher grade than that of an archdeacon; but she knew the ways of high life, and what an exigeant husband would demand of her, much better than poor Glencora.

Her father had been a country clergyman; but she knew the ways of high life much better than poor Glencora.


She would have spoken of no man as a baboon with a bristly beard.


She never talked of the long and the short of it.


She did not wander out o' nights in winter among the ruins.

She did not wander out on winter nights among the ruins.


She made no fast friendship with ladies whom her lord did not like.


She had once, indeed, been approached by a lover since she had been married,--Mr. Palliser himself having been the offender,--but she had turned the affair to infinite credit and profit, had gained her husband's closest confidence by telling him of it all, had yet not brought on any hostile collision, and had even dismissed her lover without annoying him.

She had once, indeed, been approached by a lover after she had been married - Mr. Palliser himself having been the offender - but she had turned the affair to credit, had gained her husband's closest confidence by telling him of it all, and had even dismissed her lover without annoying him.


But then Lady Hartletop was a miracle of a woman!


Though born in the purple, she was made of ordinary flesh and blood, and as she entered Lady Monk's little room, hardly knew how to recover herself sufficiently for the purposes of ordinary conversation.

She was made of ordinary flesh and blood, and as she entered Lady Monk's little room, hardly knew how to recover herself enough to make ordinary conversation.


"Dear Lady Glencora, do come in for a moment to my den. We were so sorry not to have you at Monkshade.

"Dear Lady Glencora, we were so sorry not to have you at Monkshade.


We heard such terrible things about your health."


Lady Glencora said that it was only a cold,--a bad cold.

Lady Glencora said that it was only a cold.


"Oh, yes; we heard,--something about moonlight and ruins.

"Oh, yes; we heard something about moonlight and ruins.


I love that sort of thing, above all people; but it doesn't do; does it?


I think you know Lady Hartletop;--and there's the Duchess of St. Bungay.

I think you know Lady Hartletop; and the Duchess of St. Bungay."


Mr. Palliser was here five minutes since."


Then Lady Monk was obliged to get to her door again and Lady Glencora found herself standing close to Lady Hartletop.

Then Lady Monk was obliged to go to her door again and Lady Glencora found herself standing close to Lady Hartletop.


"We saw Mr. Palliser just pass through," said Lady Hartletop, who was able to meet and speak of the man who had dared to approach her with his love, without the slightest nervousness.

"We saw Mr. Palliser just pass through," said Lady Hartletop, who was able to speak of the man who had dared to approach her with his love, without the slightest nervousness.


"Yes; he said he should be here," said Lady Glencora.


"There's a great crowd," said Lady Hartletop.


said Lady Glencora, and then they had said to each other all that society required.


Lady Glencora, as we know, could talk with imprudent vehemence by the hour together if she liked her companion; but the other lady seldom committed herself by more words than she had uttered now,--unless it was to her tirewoman.


"How very well you are looking," said the Duchess.


"And I heard you had been so ill." Of that midnight escapade among the ruins it was fated that Lady Glencora should never hear the last.


sounded in her ear, and there was a great red paw stuck out for her to take.


But after what had passed between Lady Glencora and her husband to-day about Mr. Bott, she was determined that she would not take Mr. Bott's hand.

But she was determined that she would not take Mr. Bott's hand.


"I think I'll look for Mr. Palliser in the back room."


"Dear Lady Glencora," whispered the Duchess, in an ecstasy of agony.


Lady Glencora turned and bowed her head to her stout friend.


There's that woman, Mrs. Conway Sparkes, coming, and you know how I hate her."


She had nothing to do but to take the Duchess under her wing, and they passed into the large room together.

She had to take the Duchess under her wing, and they passed into the large room together.


It is, I think, more than probable that Mrs. Conway Sparkes had been brought in by Lady Monk as the only way of removing the Duchess from her stool.

It is, I think, probable that Mrs. Conway Sparkes had been brought in by Lady Monk as the only way of removing the Duchess.


Just within the dancing-room Lady Glencora found her husband, standing in a corner, looking as though he were making calculations.

In the dancing-room Lady Glencora found her husband standing in a corner, looking as though he were making calculations.


"I'm going away," said he, coming up to her.


"I only just came because I said I would.


"Perhaps once,--just to show that I'm not an old woman."

"Perhaps once, just to show that I'm not an old woman."


Then he went, and in the crush of the doorway he passed Burgo Fitzgerald, whose eye was intently fixed upon his wife.


He looked at Burgo, and some thought of that young man's former hopes flashed across his mind,--some remembrance, too, of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did a suspicion come to him that he ought to stop and watch by his wife.

He looked at Burgo, and some thought of that young man's former hopes flashed across his mind - some remembrance, too, of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did he suspect that he ought to stay and guard his wife.


Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we last saw him,--against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind, This thing that he was about to do, or to attempt,--was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her whom he pretended to love?

Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase; and some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind.
This thing that he was about to attempt - was it good, and would it be good for Glencora?

Chapter 50: How Lady Glencora Came Back from Lady Monk's Party


What would be her future if she consented now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband?

What would her future be if she consented to go with him, and to leave her husband?


Of his own future he thought not at all.


Even when he had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table.

Even when he had first found himself attracted by her wealth, it simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table.


But now, during these moments, he did think a little of her.


Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be denied to her?

Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all regarded her as degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her?


Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a woman's life in such circumstances.


Would Glencora be happy with him while living such a life simply because he loved her?


And, under such circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her?

And, under such circumstances, would he continue to love her?


Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least trustworthy?

Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant and untrustworthy of men?


Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets.

He asked himself these questions with something of true feeling, and almost persuaded himself that he had better wander forth into the streets.


It mattered little what might become of himself.


If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be not altogether undesirable.

If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things.


But then the remembrance of his aunt's two hundred pounds came upon him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given to him.

But then he remembered his aunt's two hundred pounds, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given.


As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and, therefore, refunding the money--no such thought as that was possible to him!

As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and refunding the money - that was impossible!


To give back two hundred pounds entire,--two hundred pounds which were already within his clutches, was not within the compass of Burgo's generosity.

He could not give back two hundred pounds.


Remembering the cash, he told himself that hesitation was no longer possible to him.


So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a sigh that was audible to all around him, and took himself up-stairs.

So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a deep sigh, and took himself upstairs.


He looked in at his aunt's room, and then he saw her and was seen by her.


"Well, Burgo," she said, with her sweetest smile, "have you been dancing?"


He turned away from her without answering her, muttering something between his teeth about a cold-blooded Jezebel,--which, if she had heard it, would have made her think him the most ungrateful of men.

He turned away, muttering something about a cold-blooded Jezebel.


But she did not hear him, and smiled still as he went away, saying something to Mrs. Conway Sparkes as to the great change for the better which had taken place in her nephew's conduct.

But she did not hear, and smiled as he went.


"There's no knowing who may not reform," said Mrs. Sparkes, with an emphasis which seemed to Lady Monk to be almost uncourteous.


Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was in progress, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop.

Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop.


Lord Hartletop was a man not much more given to conversation than his wife, and Lady Glencora seemed to go through her work with very little gratification either in the dancing or in the society of her partner.

Lady Glencora seemed to enjoy neither the dancing nor the society of her partner.


She was simply standing up to dance, because, as she had told Mr. Palliser, ladies of her age generally do stand up on such occasions.

She was simply standing up to dance because it was the correct thing to do.


Burgo watched her as she crossed and re-crossed the room, and at last she was aware of his presence.

Burgo watched her, and at last she became aware of his presence.


It made no change in her, except that she became even somewhat less animated than she had been before.

It made no change in her, except that she became even less animated than before.


She would not seem to see him, nor would she allow herself to be driven into a pretence of a conversation with her partner because he was there.


"I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself, as soon as the last figure of the quadrille was in action.

"I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself.


"Why should I not ask her as well as any other woman?"


Then the music ceased, and after a minute's interval Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room.

Then the music ceased, and Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room.


Burgo, who had been standing near the door, followed them at once.


The crowd was great, so that he could not get near them or even keep them in sight, but he was aware of the way in which they were going.

The crowd was so great that he could not get near them, but he knew which way they were going.


It was five minutes after this when he again saw her, and then she was seated on a cane bench in the gallery, and an old woman was standing close to her, talking to her.

Five minutes later he again saw her, seated on a cane bench in the gallery, with an old woman standing close to her, talking to her.


It was Mrs. Marsham cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was telling that lady that she needed no such advice, in words almost as curt as those I have used.

It was Mrs. Marsham, cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was curtly telling that lady that she needed no such advice.


Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that, as far as that was concerned, he had done his duty for the night.

Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that he had done his duty for the night.


Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham,--had never seen her before, and was quite unaware that she had any special connection with Mr. Palliser.

Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham, and was quite unaware that she had any connection with Mr. Palliser.


It was impossible, he thought, to find Lady Glencora in a better position for his purpose, so he made his way up to her through the crowd, and muttering some slight inaudible word, offered her his hand.

So he made his way up to Lady Glencora through the crowd, and muttering some inaudible word, offered her his hand.


"That will do very well thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said at this moment.

"That will do very well, thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said.


"Pray, do not trouble yourself," and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald.


Mrs. Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend's wife.

Mrs. Marsham knew who he was, and all his history.


She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora.


Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned that man's name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold.

Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned his name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna meant that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him.


And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love,--the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife,--within his own!

And there he was, leaning over them, taking the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife!


How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs. Marsham's immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo's favour.

How Lady Glencora might have behaved at this moment if Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is pointless to guess; but under Mrs. Marsham's eye, all her resolution was in Burgo's favour.


She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.

She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she said nothing, her face seemed to show pleasure.


said Burgo,--asking it not at all as though it were a special favour,--asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.

said Burgo, asking as though it were a commonplace event.


"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz to-night," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly.

"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly.


She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo's proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend's wife into open hostility.

She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else she would have been aware that this answer would drive her friend's wife into open hostility.


said Lady Glencora rising from her seat.

said Lady Glencora, rising from her seat.


I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well."

I rather think I shall, especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well."


Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo's arm.


Mrs. Marsham made still a little effort,--a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress.

Mrs. Marsham laid a hand on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face with all the severity of caution of which she was capable.


Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily.


Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs. Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.

Whether she would put her fate into Burgo's hands, she had not yet decided; but she was very sure that Mrs. Marsham should not restrain her.


Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear.


Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married.

Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love Lady Glencora.


There was a rumour about that he still had some hope.


Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser's wife would really be false to her vows.


It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr. Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs. Marsham thought that she could accomplish.

It was not in fear of any such catastrophe that she had taken on the duty of duenna: it was merely to mould her into a form appropriate for the wife of Mr. Palliser.


It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now--now she hardly knew what to think about it.

It had not occurred to her that she might need to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now she hardly knew what to think.


And then she saw Mr. Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.

And then she saw Mr. Bott at the top of the staircase.


In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo's arm.


They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her.


His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them.

His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close.


"Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bte noire."


And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo's settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.

And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said about Burgo's purpose.


Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing.

Burgo waltzed excellently, and before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing.


She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her.


Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again.

Lady Monk, creeping from her den to the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again.


Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also--in horror.

Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott, standing together just inside the other door, looked on also - in horror.


"He shouldn't have gone away and left her," said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.


"But I don't know where to find him," said Mrs. Marsham.


"I didn't mean now at once," said Mr. Bott;--and then he added, "Do you think it is as bad as that?"

"I didn't mean now, at once," said Mr. Bott. "Do you think it is as bad as that?"


"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Marsham.


The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath.


"I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think--I should have been able--to dance at all."

"I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think I should have been able - to dance at all."


Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils,--as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.

Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and breathed deep.


"Presently," said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her.

"Presently," said she, beginning to wonder whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her.


Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.

Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice, knowing that he must use this opportunity.


It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth.


It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views.


The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity.


There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back.


"Does it put you in mind of 'old days?'"


The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream.


The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs. Marsham; her own unsettled mind--quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay!

The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice so that she might be guarded from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger about Mrs. Marsham!


It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.

It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke.


It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost,--so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb.

It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost.


But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women.

But they who have said so have known little of women.


Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness.

Women doubt every day, and many solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so by fear, or conscience, but mostly by that half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the circumstances.


Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition.


Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.


She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak.


"You must not talk of that," she said, very softly.


And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly.


Were not you happy when you thought--? Ah, dear!

Were not you happy when you thought Ah, dear!


I suppose it is best not even to think of them?"


I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish."


In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise.

In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came as no surprise.


They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.

They were standing back, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew his words were audible to none but her whom he addressed.


"You should not have come to me at all," she said.


"Come and dance," she said; "I see a pair of eyes looking at us."


The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr. Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground.

The pair of eyes which she saw were Mr. Bott's. He was standing alone in the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners from above.


Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gotten herself away in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr. Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.

Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gone in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order to look there for Mr. Palliser.


Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this line of conduct.

Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this.


"There'll be worse mischief if you don't," Mr. Bott had answered.


"He can come back, and then he can do as he likes.

"He can come back, and then do as he likes.


Again they went round the room,--or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers,--as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence.

Again they went round the room as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence.


But there were others besides Mr. Bott who looked on and wondered.


The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing,--for the Duchess was good at heart.

The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing, for the Duchess was good at heart.


Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite,--as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne,--for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart.

Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite; for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart.


Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows.


She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart,--what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad.

She liked to know what was going on; but, as for her heart, what she had was neither good nor bad.


Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart.


Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow.


She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt.

She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing the eyes of all her guests.


In the meantime Mr. Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.


Burgo said again, as soon as a moment's pause gave him breath to speak.


Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his.


But, of course, he knew that she had received it.


She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her.


"Let us go out upon the stairs," he said, "for I must speak to you.


Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade!"


They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did.

They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room; for all the world was now intent on food and drink.


Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr. Bott.

Lady Glencora glanced upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, and her eyes met those of Mr. Bott.


"A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him."


That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.

That was the thought that crossed her mind.


"I'll get you some champagne with water in it," said Burgo.


They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment.

They had now got into the supper-room, and had escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment.


"Mr. Fitzgerald,"--and now her words had become a whisper in his ear,--"do what I ask you.

"Mr. Fitzgerald," - and now she whispered - "do what I ask you.


For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again--"

For the sake of the old days which can never come again-"


Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back.


You are doing me an injury while you remain with me."


But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on.


She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning.


"I will not have it, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, speaking almost passionately.


This was still true, for Mr. Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door.


Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it.


But there are labours which are labours of love.


If you are minded to do as I have asked you--"

If you are minded to do as I have asked you-"


Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?"


"Yes;--it is an insult, Cora,--unless such an offer be a joy to you.


"If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult."


Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.

Her face was not turned to him, and her words were in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.


"Come with me,--abroad, and you shall yet be my wife.

"Come with me, abroad, and you shall be my wife.


The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety.


"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, "I asked you to go and leave me.


If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you.


In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.

In truth, she added it simply feeling that it was the best way to make him obey.


"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them.

"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly and earnestly, utterly indifferent to any watching eyes.


"I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again."


"I will," she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.


Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr. Bott's eyes, she saw the face of Mr. Palliser as he entered the room.


Mr. Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference,--had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him.

Mr. Bott had tried to clutch his arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently without noticing him.


Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage.


She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done.


For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself.

For that matter, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper it to Burgo himself.


Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing before it.

Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing.


"Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice.

"Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking in her ordinary clear-toned voice.


Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.


Mr. Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife.

Mr. Palliser made his way through the crowd up to his wife.


He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret.


There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement.

There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor untoward hurry in his movement.


Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak.


"I thought you were gone home hours ago," she said.

Lady Glencora said, "I thought you were gone home hours ago."


"I did go home," he answered, "but I thought I might as well come back for you."


Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room,--a little black and yellow scarf,--would you mind getting it for me?"

Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room - a little black and yellow scarf - would you mind getting it for me?"


"I will fetch it," said Mr. Palliser; "and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her."


"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.

"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress through the crowd, leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.


Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone.


There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her.

There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them together.


He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once.

He might have ordered her to leave the scarf behind, and come at once.


She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr. Bott, and was thankful to him also for that.


Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over.

Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance was over, for the moment.


"Good-night, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, giving him her hand.


He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went.

He pressed it, and then turned and went.


When Mr. Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.


Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr. Bott.

Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door, near Mr. Bott, when her husband returned.


Mr. Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply.


He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf.


"And what shall we do about Mrs. Marsham?"


she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband's arm.

she said, out loud, as she put her hand on her husband's arm.


"Mrs. Marsham has gone home," he replied.


These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage.


She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it.

She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not answer.


"What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk's?" she asked again.

But she repeated, "What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane?"


Mr. Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject.


"I suppose she went," continued Lady Glencora, "to tell you that I was dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald.


"I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now."


"I don't mean to discuss it now, or ever.


If you did not wish me to see Mr. Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk's.


But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott."


Mr. Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk's party in this way came to an end.

Mr. Palliser did not reply. Thus the evening of Lady Monk's party came to an end.


Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall with her grandfather.

Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall.

Chapter 34: Mr. Vavasor Speaks to His Daughter


Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something,--to take some steps with the view of preventing the marriage which his daughter meditated; but he did not know what that something should be, and he did know that, whatever it might be, the doing of it would be thoroughly disagreeable.

Mr. Vavasor knew that he ought to do something to prevent his daughter marrying George Vavasor; but he did not know what that something should be, although he did know that doing it would be thoroughly disagreeable.


When they started from Vavasor he had as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject.


"I cannot congratulate you," he had simply said.


"I hope the time may come, papa, when you will," Alice had answered; and that had been all.


The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would express himself satisfied with the proposed marriage.

The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would say he was satisfied with the marriage.


John Vavasor had certainly expressed nothing of the kind.

But John Vavasor had said nothing of the kind.


"I think so badly of him," he had said, speaking to the old man of George, "that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her, than that she should be united to him."

"I think so badly of George," he had said, "that I would rather almost any other calamity happened to her, than that she should marry him."


Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken up the cudgels on behalf of his grandson; and had tried to prove that the match after all would not be so bad in its results as his son seemed to expect.

Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had argued on his grandson's side.


"It would do very well for the property," he said.


"I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well as another."

"I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform."


John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughly bad, that he was an adventurer; that he believed him to be a ruined man, and that he would never reform.

John Vavasor had declared that George was thoroughly bad, and would never reform.


The squire upon this had waxed angry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down at the old house, which he certainly had no right to expect.


When Alice wished her grandfather good-bye the old man gave her a message to his grandson.

When Alice wished him goodbye, the old man gave her a message to his grandson.


"You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours.

"You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon your child.


I shall always be glad to see you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humble himself to me."

I shall always be glad to see you, my dear."


There was no word spoken then about her father's consent; and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire was rather her friend than her enemy in regard to this thing which she contemplated.

Alice felt that the squire was her friend rather than her enemy in the matter.


That her father was and would be an uncompromising enemy to her,--uncompromising though probably not energetical,--she was well aware; and, therefore, the journey up to London was not comfortable.

However she was well aware that her father was an uncompromising enemy, so the journey up to London was not comfortable.


Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience.

She had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience.


"There cannot be obedience on one side," she said to herself, "without protection and support on the other."


Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little in the way of supporting or protecting his daughter.

It was quite true that John Vavasor had done little to support or protect his daughter.


Early in life, before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he had, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her; and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of life which made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any other father would live with his child.

Early in life, before she had come to live with him, he had, as it were, washed his hands of her upbringing.


Then, when there first sprang up between them that manner of sharing the same house without any joining together of their habits of life, he had excused himself to himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection.

Then, when they first shared the same house, he did not attempt to change his bachelor ways, telling himself that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection.


Her fortune was her own, and at her own disposal.


Her character was such that she showed no inclination to throw the burden of such disposal on her father's shoulders.


She was steady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that he should watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who could do as well without surveillance as with it,--as well, or perhaps better.

She was steady and independently minded, and he thought she needed no surveillance.


So it had come to pass that Alice had been the free mistress of her own actions, and had been left to make the most she could of her own hours.

So Alice had been left to make the most she could of her own hours.


It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month, without telling herself that her father was neglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, without feeling that the tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child.

She had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month; and when he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, she could not help feeling that she lacked the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child.


She was well aware that she had been ill-used in being thus left desolate in her home.


She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned, without being aware that she was doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life.

She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned to resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life.


In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had believed that his theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She had been left to herself, and was going to dispose of herself in a way than which nothing could be more eligible.

In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had been content to leave her alone.


But evil days were now coming, and Mr. Vavasor, as he travelled up to London, with his daughter seated opposite to him in the railway carriage, felt that now, at last, he must interfere.

But now, as he sat opposite his daughter in the railway carriage, he felt that he must interfere.


In part of the journey they had the carriage to themselves, and Mr. Vavasor thought that he would begin what he had to say; but he put it off till others joined them, and then there was no further opportunity for such conversation as that which would be necessary between them.

However, he put off speaking, and then others joined them in the carriage, and he could not say what he felt necessary.


They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road.


"She will be tired to-night," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her to-morrow."

"She will be tired tonight," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her tomorrow."


Alice specially felt his going on this evening.

Alice specially felt his going out on this evening.


When two persons had together the tedium of such a journey as that from Westmoreland up to London, there should be some feeling between them to bind them together while enjoying the comfort of the evening.


Had he stayed and sat with her at her tea-table, Alice would at any rate have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussion that might have been raised; but he went away from her at once, leaving her to think alone over the perils of the life before her.

If he had stayed and sat with her at the tea-table, she would have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussion; but he went at once.


"I want to speak to you after breakfast to-morrow," he said as he went out.

"I want to speak to you after breakfast tomorrow," he said as he went out.


Alice answered that she should be there,--as a matter of course.

Alice answered that she should be there.


She scorned to tell him that she was always there,--always alone at home.

She scorned to tell him that she was always there, always alone at home.


She had never uttered a word of complaint, and she would not begin now.

She had never complained, and she would not begin now.


The discussion after breakfast the next day was commenced with formal and almost ceremonial preparation.

The discussion the next day began with formal and almost ceremonial preparation.


The father and daughter breakfasted together, with the knowledge that the discussion was coming.


It did not give to either of them a good appetite, and very little was said at table.


said Alice, when she perceived that her father had finished his tea.


"Perhaps that will be best," said he. Then he followed her into the drawing-room in which the fire had just been lit.

"Perhaps that will be best," said he, and followed her into the drawing-room.


"Alice," said he, "I must speak to you about this engagement of yours."

"Alice, I must speak to you about this engagement."


It does look so dreadful, your standing up over one in that way."


He had placed himself on the rug with his back to the incipient fire, but now, at her request, he sat himself down opposite to her.

He had stood with his back to the fire, but now he sat down.


"I was greatly grieved when I heard of this at Vavasor."

"I was greatly grieved when I heard of this."


"I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa."


I must confess that I never could understand why you treated Mr. Grey as you have done."


"Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin?"

"Does Mr. Grey know yet of your engagement with your cousin?"


"He will know it by this time to-morrow."

"He will know it by this time tomorrow."


"Then I beg of you, as a great favour, to postpone your letter to him."

"Then I beg of you to postpone your letter to him."


"I have not troubled you with many such requests, Alice.


Will you tell me that this one shall be granted?"


"I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him know the truth."

"I think it is my duty to let him know the truth."


Alice found that this was hard to bear and hard to answer; but there was a certain amount of truth in the grievous reproach conveyed in her father's words, which made her bow her neck to it.

Alice found that this was hard to bear; but there was a certain amount of truth in it which made her bow her head.


"I have no right to say that it is impossible," she replied, in words that were barely audible.


"And therefore it will be better that you should postpone any such communication."

"Therefore it will be better that you should postpone your letter."


"Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told."


I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay.


I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible."


"You have done him an injury certainly, my dear;--a very great injury," said Mr. Vavasor, going away from his object about the proposed letter; "and I believe he will feel it as such to the last day of his life, if this goes on."

"You have done him a very great injury certainly, my dear," said Mr. Vavasor; "and I believe he will feel it to the last day of his life."


"But of course what I am thinking of now is your welfare,--not his.

"But of course I am thinking now of your welfare, not his.


When you simply told me that you intended to--." Alice winced, for she feared to hear from her father that odious word which her grandfather had used to her; and indeed the word had been on her father's lips, but he had refrained and spared her--"that you intended to break your engagement with Mr. Grey," he continued, "I said little or nothing to you.

When you simply told me that you intended to break your engagement, I said little or nothing.


I would not ask you to marry any man, even though you had yourself promised to marry him.


But when you tell me that you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different.


Indeed I think anything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the world speaks very ill of him."

Indeed I must tell you that the world speaks very ill of him."


"When you were about to travel with him," he continued, "I ought perhaps to have told you the same.

"When you were about to travel with him," he continued, "I ought perhaps to have told you.


But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and, moreover, I have heard worse of him since then,--much worse than I had heard before."

But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and since then, I have heard much worse of him than I had heard before.


"As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now," said Alice.


"No, my dear; I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself without telling you that you are doing so.


If it were not for your money he would never think of marrying you."


"He has told me so himself very plainly."


It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money in marriage,--or rather, perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling.


Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling?

Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get the money for which every man is struggling?


At this point of George's career the use of money is essential to him.

At this point of George's career money is essential to him.


"You had better then give him your money without yourself," said her father, speaking in irony.

"Then you had better give him your money without yourself," said her father, speaking in irony.


"That is just what I mean to do, papa," said Alice.


said Mr. Vavasor, jumping up from his seat.


"You mean to give him your money before you marry him?"


"Certainly I do;--if he should want it;--or, I should rather say, as much as he may want of it."

"Certainly I do, if he wants it - or some of it."


"It is a kind of madness of which I need not at any rate be ashamed."

"It is a kind of madness of which I need not be ashamed."


"Tell me this, Alice; has he got any of it as yet?"


If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent to my cousin what money he might need."

If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent money to my cousin."


"I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, and if it were not much that would be an end of it.

"I should say that so much of your fortune was thrown away.


I would sooner see you surrender to him the half of all you have, without any engagement to marry him, than know that he had received a shilling from you under such a promise."


"Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did you condemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that he was altogether unworthy of you?"

When you rejected him before, did you not see that he was altogether unworthy of you?"


"We were both younger, then," said Alice, speaking very softly, but very seriously.

"We were both younger then," said Alice, speaking softly, but very seriously.


"We were both much younger then, and looked at life with other eyes than those which we now use.


For myself I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and as for him, he was then attached to pleasures to which I believe he has now learned to be indifferent."

I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and he was attached to pleasures to which he has now learned to be indifferent."


"I can only speak as I believe," continued Alice.

"I can only say what I believe," continued Alice.


"And I think I may perhaps know more of his manner of life than you do, papa.

"And I think I know more of his way of life than you do, papa.


But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before.


Even though he were all that you think him to be, I would still endeavour to do my duty to him, and to bring him to other things."

Even if he were all that you think, I would still try to do my duty to him, and to bring him to other things."


"What is it you expect to get by marrying him?"


"A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own," answered Alice.


"A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with which I can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in the career which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why I should attempt to do so."

"A husband who proposes to build a career with which I can sympathize, and perhaps help."


"Partly with my money," said Alice, disdaining to answer the sneer.


"Though it were only with my money, even that would be something."


"Well, Alice, as your father, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands.

"Well, Alice, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands.


If he demands money from you, and you are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation.

If he demands money from you, give it to him in moderation.


Anything will be better than marrying him.


I know that I cannot hinder you; you are as much your own mistress as I am my own master,--or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on my going to that horrid place in Chancery Lane.

I know that I cannot stop you; you are your own mistress.


But yet I suppose you must think something of your father's wishes and your father's opinion.

But I suppose you must think something of your father's opinion.


It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without my being there near you."

It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without me."


To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to her to have stood at so many places during the last four years,--and to have found herself so often alone,--without her father being near to her.

To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to have stood at so many places during the last four years alone, without her father.


That had been his fault, and it was not now in her power to remedy the ill-effects of it.


"Has any day been fixed between you and him?"


I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet. It is because I told him that, that I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it."

I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet, although I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it."


He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makes him want money.

He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the expense of the election which makes him need money.


You are not to suppose that he has asked me for it.


When I made him understand that I did not wish to marry quite yet, I offered him the use of that which would be ultimately his own."


"He answered me just as I had intended,--that when the need came he would take me at my word."

"He answered that when the need came he would take me at my word."


"Then, Alice, I will tell you what is my belief.

"Then, Alice, I will tell you what I believe.


He will drain you of every shilling of your money, and when that is gone, there will be no more heard of the marriage.

He will drain you of every shilling, and when that is gone, there will be no more heard of the marriage.


We must take a small house in some cheap part of the town and live on my income as best we may.


I shall go and insure my life, so that you may not absolutely starve when I die."

I shall go and insure my life, so that you may not starve when I die."


Having said this, Mr. Vavasor went away, not immediately to the insurance office, as his words seemed to imply, but to his club where he sat alone, reading the newspaper, very gloomily, till the time came for his afternoon rubber of whist, and the club dinner bill for the day was brought under his eye.

Having said this, Mr. Vavasor went away, not to the insurance office, but to his club where he sat reading the newspaper, very gloomily, till the time came for whist and dinner.


Alice had no such consolations in her solitude.


She had fought her battle with her father tolerably well, but she was now called upon to fight a battle with herself, which was one much more difficult to win.

She had fought her battle with her father, but she now had to fight a battle with herself.


Was her cousin, her betrothed as she now must regard him, the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal which her father painted him?

Was her cousin - her betrothed - the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal which her father painted him?


There had certainly been a time, and that not very long distant, in which Alice herself had been almost constrained so to regard him.

There had certainly been a time when Alice herself had almost felt so.


Since that any change for the better in her opinion of him had been grounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate.

Any change for the better in her opinion of him had been grounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate.


He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence, unless his reckless daring in coming forward to contest a seat in Parliament could be regarded as a doing of something.

He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence.


And he had owned himself to be a man almost penniless; he had spoken of himself as being utterly reckless,--as being one whose standing in the world was and must continue to be a perch on the edge of a precipice, from which any accident might knock him headlong.

He had admitted that he was almost penniless; he had spoken of himself as being utterly reckless.


Alice believed in her heart that this last profession or trade to which he had applied himself, was becoming as nothing to him,--that he received from it no certain income;--no income that a man could make to appear respectable to fathers or guardians when seeking a girl in marriage.


Her father declared that all men spoke badly of him.


Alice knew her father to be an idle man, a man given to pleasure, to be one who thought by far too much of the good things of the world; but she had never found him to be either false or malicious.

Alice knew her father to be an idle man, but she had never found him to be false or malicious.


His unwonted energy in this matter was in itself evidence that he believed himself to be right in what he said.


To tell the truth, Alice was frightened at what she had done, and almost repented of it already.


Her acceptance of her cousin's offer had not come of love;--nor had it, in truth, come chiefly of ambition.

Her acceptance of her cousin's offer had not come of love; nor even of ambition.


She had not so much asked herself why she should do this thing, as why she should not do it,--seeing that it was required of her by her friend.

She had not so much asked herself why she should do this thing, as why should she not do it?


Her friend wished it, and after all what did it matter?


It cannot be supposed that she looked back on the past events of her life with any self-satisfaction.

It cannot be supposed that she looked back on her past life with any self-satisfaction.


There was no self-satisfaction, but in truth there was more self-reproach than she deserved.

In truth she felt more self-reproach than she deserved.


As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately, and that love had failed her.

As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately, and that love had failed.


She did not tell herself that she had been wrong when she gave him up, but she thought herself to have been most unfortunate in the one necessity.


After such an experience as that, would it not have been better for her to have remained without further thought of marriage?

After that, would it not have been better for her to have remained without further thought of marriage?


Then came that terrible episode in her life for which she never could forgive herself.


She had accepted Mr. Grey because she liked him and honoured him.


"And I did love him," she said to herself, now on this morning.

"And I did love him," she said to herself now.


As she sat there thinking of it all in her solitude she was to be pitied at any rate, if not to be forgiven.


Now, as she thought of Nethercoats, with its quiet life, its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy of him who would have been her lord and master, her feelings were very different from those which had induced her to resolve that she would not stoop to put her neck beneath that yoke.

As she thought of Nethercoats, with its quiet life, its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy of its master, her feelings were very different from those which had made her resolve not to put her neck beneath that yoke.


Would it not have been well for her to have a master who by his wisdom and strength could save her from such wretched doubtings as these?

Would it not have been well for her to have a master whose wisdom and strength could save her from such wretched doubts as these?


But she had refused to bend, and then she had found herself desolate and alone in the world.

But she had refused to bend, and had found herself desolate and alone in the world.


"If I can do him good why should I not marry him?"


In that feeling had been the chief argument which had induced her to return such an answer as she had sent to her cousin.

That had been the chief argument which had induced her to accept George Vavasor.


As to this life of mine and all that belongs to it, why should I regard it otherwise than to make it of some service to some one who is dear to me?"

At least I can make my life of some use to someone who is dear to me."


He had been ever dear to her from her earliest years.

He had always been dear to her from her earliest years.


She believed in his intellect, even if she could not believe in his conduct.


Kate, her friend, longed for this thing.


As for that dream of love, it meant nothing; and as for those arguments of prudence,--that cold calculation about her money, which all people seemed to expect from her,--she would throw it to the winds.

As for that dream of love, it meant nothing.


She might save him from ruin, and help him to honour and fortune.


But then, when the word was once past her lips, there returned to her that true woman's feeling which made her plead for a long day,--which made her feel that that long day would be all too short,--which made her already dread the coming of the end of the year.

But she already dreaded the coming of the end of the year.


She had said that she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that the saying so might be the end of it.

She had said that she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that saying so might be the end of it.


When he came to her to embrace her how should she receive him?

When he came to embrace her how should she receive him?


The memory of John Grey's last kiss still lingered on her lips.


She had told herself that she scorned the delights of love; if it were so, was she not bound to keep herself far from them; if it were so,--would not her cousin's kiss pollute her?


"It may be as my father says," she thought.


"It may be that he wants my money only; if so, let him have it.


Surely when the year is over I shall know."


Then a plan formed itself in her head, which she did not make willingly, with any voluntary action of her mind,--but which came upon her as plans do come,--and recommended itself to her in despite of herself.


He should have her money as he might call for it,--all of it excepting some small portion of her income, which might suffice to keep her from burdening her father.

He should have her money as he might call for it - all of it except some small portion of her income, which might keep her from burdening her father.


Then, if he were contented, he should go free, without reproach, and there should be an end of all question of marriage for her.


As she thought of this, and matured it in her mind, the door opened, and the servant announced her cousin George.

As she thought of this, the door opened, and the servant announced her cousin George.


On the following morning everybody was stirring by times at Mr. Palliser's house in Park Lane, and the master of that house yawned no more.

On the following morning Mr. Palliser yawned no more.


There is some life in starting for a long journey, and the life is the stronger and the fuller if the things and people to be carried are numerous and troublesome.

There is some life in starting a long journey, and the life is the stronger and fuller if the things and people to be carried are numerous and troublesome.


Lady Glencora was a little troublesome, and would not come down to breakfast in time.


When rebuked on account of this manifest breach of engagement, she asserted that the next train would do just as well; and when Mr. Palliser proved to her, with much trouble, that the next train could not enable them to reach Paris on that day, she declared that it would be much more comfortable to take a week in going than to hurry over the ground in one day.

When rebuked, she asserted that the next train would do just as well; and when Mr. Palliser proved to her, with much trouble, that the next train could not enable them to reach Paris on that day, she declared that it would be much more comfortable to take a week in going than to hurry.


There was nothing she wanted so much as to see Folkestone.


"If that is the case, why did not you tell me so before?"


said Mr. Palliser, in his gravest voice.


"Richard and the carriage went down yesterday, and are already on board the packet."


"If Richard and the carriage are already on board the packet," said Lady Glencora, "of course we must follow them, and we must put off the glories of Folkestone till we come back.

"If Richard and the carriage are already on board the packet," said Lady Glencora, "of course we must follow them.


Alice, haven't you observed that, in travelling, you are always driven on by some Richard or some carriage, till you feel that you are a slave?"


All this was trying to Mr. Palliser; but I think that he enjoyed it, nevertheless, and that he was happy when he found that he did get his freight off from the Pimlico Station in the proper train.

All this was trying to Mr. Palliser; but I think that he enjoyed it, nevertheless, and was happy when he did get his freight off from Pimlico Station in the proper train.


Of course Lady Glencora and Alice were very ill crossing the Channel; of course the two maids were worse than their mistresses; of course the men kept out of their master's way when they were wanted, and drank brandy-and-water with the steward down-stairs; and of course Lady Glencora declared that she would not allow herself to be carried beyond Boulogne that day;--but, nevertheless, they did get on to Paris.

Of course Lady Glencora and Alice were very ill crossing the Channel; of course the two maids were worse than their mistresses; of course the men-servants drank brandy-and-water with the steward downstairs; and of course Lady Glencora declared that she would not go beyond Boulogne that day; but, nevertheless, they did get on to Paris.


Had Mr. Palliser become Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had once hoped, he could hardly have worked harder than he did work.

Had Mr. Palliser become Chancellor of the Exchequer, he could hardly have worked harder.


It was he who found out which carriage had been taken for them, and who put, with his own hands, the ladies' dressing-cases and cloaks on to the seats,--who laid out the novels, which, of course, were not read by the road,--and made preparations as though this stage of their journey was to take them a week, instead of five hours and a half.

It was he who found out which carriage had been reserved for them, and who put the ladies' dressing-cases and cloaks on to the seats, who laid out the novels, and made preparations as though this stage of their journey was to take them a week, instead of five hours and a half.


said Lady Glencora, as they came near to Paris.

said Lady Glencora, as they approached Paris.


"I think you've been tolerably comfortable," said Mr. Palliser, joyfully.

"I think you've been tolerably comfortable," said Mr. Palliser joyfully.


"Since we got out of that horrid boat I have done pretty well.


"It would be difficult to make them nice, I suppose?"


"It is the sea that makes them uncomfortable," said Mr. Palliser.


"Never mind; we shan't have any more of it for twelve months, at any rate.


We can get to the Kurds, Alice, without getting into a packet again.

We can get to the Kurds, Alice, without getting into a boat again.


That, to my way of thinking, is the great comfort of the Continent.

That is the great comfort of the Continent.


One can go everywhere without being seasick."


Mr. Palliser said nothing, but he sighed as he thought of being absent for a whole year.


He had said that such was his intention, and would not at once go back from what he himself had said.

He had said that such was his intention.


But how was he to live for twelve months out of the House of Commons?


What was he to do with himself, with his intellect and his energy, during all these coming dreary days?


And then,--he might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer!

And he might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer!


He might even now, at this very moment, have been upon his legs, making a financial statement of six hours' duration, to the delight of one-half of the House, and bewilderment of the other, instead of dragging cloaks across that dingy, dull, dirty waiting-room at the Paris Station, in which British subjects are kept in prison while their boxes are being tumbled out of the carriages.

He might at this very moment have been upon his feet, making a financial statement of six hours' duration, to the delight of one-half of the House, and the bewilderment of the other half, instead of dragging cloaks across that dingy, dirty waiting-room at the Paris Station.


"No, dear;--I have given the keys to Richard.


"In about half an hour," pleaded Mr. Palliser.


said Lady Glencora as she got into the carriage that was waiting for her.


Alice thought of the last time in which she had been in that room,--when George and Kate had been with her,--and the two girls had been quite content to wait patiently while their trunks were being examined.

Alice thought of the last time in which she had been in that waiting-room, when George and Kate had been with her.


But Alice was now travelling with great people,--with people who never spoke of their wealth, or seemed ever to think of it, but who showed their consciousness of it at every turn of their lives.

But she was now travelling with great people, who never spoke of their wealth, but who showed their consciousness of it at every turn of their lives.


"After all," Alice had said to herself more than once, "I doubt whether the burden is not greater than the pleasure."

"After all," she said to herself, "I wonder whether the burden is not greater than the pleasure."


They stayed in Paris for a week, and during that time Alice found that she became very intimate with Mr. Palliser.

They stayed in Paris for a week, and during that time Alice got to know Mr. Palliser well.


At Matching she had, in truth, seen but little of him, and had known nothing.


Now she began to understand his character, and learned how to talk to him, She allowed him to tell her of things in which Lady Glencora resolutely persisted in taking no interest.

Now she began to understand his character, and learned how to talk to him. She allowed him to tell her things in which Lady Glencora resolutely took no interest.


She delighted him by writing down in a little pocket-book the number of eggs that were consumed in Paris every day, whereas Glencora protested that the information was worth nothing unless her husband could tell her how many of the eggs were good, and how many bad.

She delighted him by writing down in a little pocket-book the number of eggs that were consumed in Paris every day, whereas Glencora protested that the information was worthless unless her husband could tell her how many of the eggs were good, and how many bad.


And Alice was glad to find that a hundred and fifty thousand female operatives were employed in Paris, while Lady Glencora said it was a great shame, and that they ought all to have husbands.

And Alice was glad to find that a hundred and fifty thousand female operatives were employed in Paris, while Lady Glencora said it was a great shame, and that they ought to have husbands.


When Mr. Palliser explained that that was impossible, because of the redundancy of the female population, she angered him very much by asserting that she saw a great many men walking about who, she was quite sure, had not wives of their own.


"You would always have had a pocket-book ready to write down the figures, and you would have pretended to care about the eggs, and the bottles of wine, and the rest of it.

"You would always have had a pocket-book ready to write down the figures, and you would have pretended to care about the eggs, and the rest of it.


If I see an hungry woman, I can give her my money; or if she be a sick woman, I can nurse her; or if I hear of a very wicked man, I can hate him;--but I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump.

If I see a hungry woman, I can give her my money; or if she is a sick woman, I can nurse her; but I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump.


They went into no society at Paris, and at the end of a week were all glad to leave it.

They went into no society at Paris, and at the end of a week were glad to leave.


"I don't know that Baden will be any better," Lady Glencora said; "but, you know, we can leave that again after a bit,--and so we shall go on getting nearer to the Kurds."

"I don't know that Baden will be any better," Lady Glencora said; "but we can leave again after a bit - and get nearer to the Kurds."


"I think we had better make up our mind to stay a month at Baden."

"I think we had better stay a month at Baden.


"But why should we make up our minds at all?"


"I like to have a plan," said Mr. Palliser.


"And so do I," said his wife,--"if only for the sake of not keeping it."

"And so do I," said his wife, "if only for the sake of not keeping it."


"There's nothing I hate so much as not carrying out my intentions," said Mr. Palliser.


Upon this, Lady Glencora shrugged her shoulders, and made a mock grimace to her cousin.


All this her husband bore for a while meekly, and it must be acknowledged that he behaved very well.

All this her husband bore meekly for a while; he behaved very well.


But, then, he had his own way in everything.


Lady Glencora did not behave very well,--contradicting her husband, and not considering, as, perhaps, she ought to have done, the sacrifice he was making on her behalf.

Lady Glencora did not behave very well - contradicting her husband, and not considering the sacrifice he was making on her behalf.


But, then, she had her own way in nothing.


She had her own way in almost nothing; but on one point she did conquer her husband.

On one point she did conquer her husband.


He was minded to go from Paris back to Cologne, and so down the Rhine to Baden.

He intended to go from Paris back to Cologne, and down the Rhine to Baden.


Lady Glencora declared that she hated the Rhine,--that, of all rivers, it was the most distasteful to her; that, of all scenery, the scenery of the Rhine was the most over-praised; and that she would be wretched all the time if she were carried that way.

Lady Glencora declared that she hated the Rhine, and that she would be wretched if she were taken that way.


Upon this, Mr. Palliser referred the matter to Alice; and she, who had last been upon the Rhine with her cousins Kate and George Vavasor, voted for going to Baden by way of Strasbourg.

Mr. Palliser referred the matter to Alice; and she, who had last been upon the Rhine with Kate and George Vavasor, voted for going to Baden by way of Strasbourg.


"We will go by Strasbourg, then," said Mr. Palliser, gallantly.

"We will go by Strasbourg, then," said Mr. Palliser gallantly.


"Not that I want to see that horrid church again," said Glencora.


"Everything is alike horrid to you, I think," said her husband.

"Everything is horrid to you, I think," said her husband.


"You are determined not to be contented, so that it matters very little which way we go."


They got on to Baden,--with very little delay at Strasbourg, and found half an hotel prepared for their reception.

They got to Baden, and found half a hotel prepared for their reception.


Here the carriage was brought into use for the first time, and the mistress of the carriage talked of sending home for Dandy and Flirt.

Here the carriage was brought into use for the first time, and Glencora talked of sending home for Dandy and Flirt.


Mr. Palliser, when he heard the proposition, calmly assured his wife that the horses would not bear the journey.

Mr. Palliser calmly assured his wife that the horses would not bear the journey.


"They would be so out of condition," he said, "as not to be worth anything for two or three months."


"I only meant to ask for them if they could come in a balloon," said Lady Glencora.


This angered Mr. Palliser, who had really, for a few minutes, thought of pacifying his wife by sending for the horses.

This angered Mr. Palliser, who had really thought of pacifying his wife by sending for the horses.