"Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be detained. Hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she spoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of which Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. "Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta,--"because I believe they get themselves divorced just when they like." Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I could only know what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger. "Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern severity. No,--not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had written to her on his second return to England,--and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington. "I can hardly tell you how terrible that was to me," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you." He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern.

"Yes; I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did tell his story. Hetta listened, not interrupting very often, though when she did interrupt, her words were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey across the American continent, of the ocean crossing when Paul had promised to make this woman his wife.
"Had she been divorced then?" asked Hetta.
Simple as the question was he could not answer it. "I only knew what she told me," he said, as he went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger.
"Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern severity. No, not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and - he was forced to acknowledge that the engagement had not been broken off. He had written to her on his second return to England, and then she had appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington.
"I can hardly tell you how terrible that was," he said, "for I had by that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you."
It is odd how stern a girl can be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very stern.


"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day."

"Felix says you took her to Lowestoft - quite the other day."


Montague had intended to tell all,--almost all. There was a something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. "It was on account of her health."

Montague had intended to tell almost all. There was something about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make Hetta understand. "It was on account of her health."


"Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"

"Oh; on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"


"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"


"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago."

"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. I am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and down to Lowestoft, for her health. That was only a week ago."


"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.


"Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."

"Oh; nearly three weeks! You were engaged to her, not three weeks ago."


"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."


"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."


"She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."

"She wanted then to force me to - to - Oh, Hetta, it is so hard to explain, but I am sure you understand. You cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to you."


"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."

"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her because she was divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her that you are quite ready to keep your promise."


[Illustration: "You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle."]


"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.

"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider. To have come all the way here from San Francisco after you, she must be very much attached to you. She is a very old friend, and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr. Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going back to Mrs. Hurtle." All this she said with little chokes in her throat, but without a tear or any sign of tenderness.


"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with me!"


"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs. Hurtle."

"I don't wish to quarrel with any one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married - Mrs. Hurtle."


"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."


"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr. Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to me."

"I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this story I did not believe them. It seemed to be impossible that you should have come to me not much more than a week after that trip to Lowestoft."


"Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."

"Oh, nothing to you. I think I will go away now, Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It makes it so much easier."


"Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?"

"Do you mean to say that you are going to - throw me over?"


"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."


"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.

"No; do not lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr. Montague." And so she left him.


Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she could only really know it all, there could be no such result. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her, never swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved some woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could not, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London,--which he would have given half his possessions to have prevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle;--but that trouble he had overcome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.

Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay. He had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. He had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her. Even if he had loved some woman before, that would not affect her. Her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs. Hurtle in London. Yet when she had come, could he have refused to see her? Would Hetta have wished him to be so cold and cruel? No doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle; but he had overcome that trouble. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly had never behaved badly to her.


He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually free from Mrs. Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content to abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if possible preserve an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been cruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him from America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he thought, very little heart. "I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her? Surely she might have left Mrs. Hurtle to fight her own battles. But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And here there was really so very little to forgive! Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" in close intercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even heard the name. But then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide difference between young men and young women!

He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with Roger Carbury. For her sake he had determined to endure the spring of the wild cat. For her sake - so he told himself - he had stayed involved with that odious railway company, in order that he might have an income on which to support her. And now she told him that they must part, because he had not been cruelly indifferent to Mrs. Hurtle. There was no logic in it, and, as he thought, very little heart.
"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her? But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir Felix. She could not ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives. And there was so very little to forgive!
Such were his thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" with another lover of whom he had never even heard. But then, there is a wide difference between young men and young women!


Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to her own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. "Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears,--or very nigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost successfully. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."

Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed him, went up at once to her own room. She was followed by her mother, whose anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door.
"Well; what has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was struggling to repress her tears. "You have found that what we told you about that woman was all true."


"Enough of it was true," said Hetta, who, angry as she was with her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for disturbing her bliss.


"What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me openly?"


"I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else."

"He is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he has nothing to do but to say so, and to begin with somebody else."


"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to me that you do not understand in the least."

"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. You do not understand in the least."


"Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like that."


"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"


"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."

"If you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause for any alarm."


"Mamma," said Hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh, mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me to be more to Roger Carbury than I am now."

"Mamma," said Hetta, jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way? As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Nothing on earth will ever induce me to marry Roger."


"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"


"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."


"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you have hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague."

"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to expect a reply.


"I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of."


"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--"

We have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has come here to you, with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger-"


"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"

"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that she is divorced! Have you told him that you will see him no more?"


"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."


"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly." Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and left her daughter to her solitude.


"It's weary work," said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with his mother and sister.

"It's weary work," said Sir Felix in the carriage with his mother and sister.


"What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?" said his mother.


"It's the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I'll run down to the club before I go home." So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the driver.

"I think I'll run down to the club before I go home." He put his head out, and stopped the driver.


"It is two o'clock, Felix," said his mother.

"It is two o'clock in the morning, Felix," said his mother.


"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. You had supper, perhaps; I had none."

"I'm afraid it is, but you see I'm hungry. I had no supper.


"Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?"


"I must go to bed hungry if I don't. Good night." Then he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed his play on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe owed him now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also in his debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not keep himself from the card-table.

Good night."
He jumped out of the carriage, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He told himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had won again on the previous night. Dolly Longestaffe and Lord Grasslough owed him money, and he was determined that they should not think that he had been carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth he could not keep away from the card-table.


Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had got up-stairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart at the moment. "Do you think he gambles?"

Neither mother nor daughter said a word till they reached home. Then the mother spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart.
"Do you think he gambles?"


"I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles everything is lost."

"I fear that might not stop him. If he gambles everything is lost."


"I suppose they all do play,--more or less."

"I suppose they all play, more or less."


"I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey me. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."

"I am wearied out of all heart by his lack of consideration to me. It is not that I expect obedience from a grown-up son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger."


"He has been so long his own master, mamma."


"Yes,--his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."

"His own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague."


"I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice." Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head. "If you did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there."

I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice."
Her mother shook her head.
"If you did not want me to speak to Paul," said Hetta, "you should not have taken me there."


"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." Henrietta came up and kissed her, and bade her good night. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London," she said, sobbing hysterically.

"I don't wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want." As Henrietta kissed her good night, Lady Carbury began to sob. "I think I am the unhappiest woman in all London."


"You could save me from much if you would. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling that I can help. I want nothing for myself,--nothing for myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."

"You could save me from much if you wished. I work like a horse, and I never spend a shilling on myself. Nobody has suffered as I have. But Felix never thinks of me for a moment."


"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is all because of that young man."

"If you did you would accept your cousin's offer. What right have you to refuse him? I believe it is because of that young man."


"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin very much;--but that is all. Good night, mamma." Lady Carbury just allowed herself to be kissed, and then was left alone.

"No, mamma; it is not because of that young man. I like my cousin Roger very much; - but that is all. Good night, mamma."


At eight o'clock the next morning daybreak found four young men who had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The Beargarden was so pleasant a club that there was no rule whatsoever as to its being closed,--the only law being that it should not be opened before three in the afternoon. A sort of sanction had, however, been given to the servants to demur to producing supper or drinks after six in the morning, so that, about eight, unrelieved tobacco began to be too heavy even for juvenile constitutions. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury, and the four had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had culminated during the last half-hour with blind hookey. But during the whole night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and there had been an expressed opinion between Miles and the young lord that it would be both profitable and proper to relieve Sir Felix of the winnings of the last two nights. The two men had played with the same object, and being young had shown their intention,--so that a certain feeling of hostility had been engendered. The reader is not to understand that either of them had cheated, or that the baronet had entertained any suspicion of foul play. But Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy and friendship. Dolly, however, was very tipsy.

At eight o'clock the next morning four young men had just risen from a card-table at the Beargarden. The party consisted of Dolly Longestaffe, Lord Grasslough, Miles Grendall, and Felix Carbury; they had amused themselves during the last six hours with various innocent games. They had commenced with whist, and had finished with blind hookey. But all night Felix had won. Miles Grendall hated him, and agreed with Lord Grasslough that it would be proper to relieve Sir Felix of his previous winnings. The two men had shown their intention, causing a certain hostility. Felix had felt that Grendall and Grasslough were his enemies, and had thrown himself on Dolly for sympathy. Dolly, however, was very tipsy.


At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling, though no money then passed. The ready-money transactions had not lasted long through the night. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the figures and scraps of paper which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the fact bitterly, but contested it in vain. There were his own initials and his own figures, and even Miles Grendall, who was supposed to be quite wide awake, could not reduce the amount. Then Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury,--an amount, indeed, that mattered little, as Miles could, at present, as easily have raised 40,000. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Grasslough, also, was impecunious; but he had a father,--also impecunious, indeed; but with them the matter would not be hopeless. Dolly Longestaffe was so tipsy that he could not even assist in making up his own account. That was to be left between him and Carbury for some future occasion.

At eight o'clock in the morning there came a sort of settling-up, though no money passed hands. Grasslough was the chief loser, and the paper I.O.U.s which had been passed over to Carbury, when counted up, amounted to nearly 2,000. His lordship contested the amount bitterly, but in vain. Grendall had lost over 400 to Carbury, an amount that he could never hope to raise. However, he gave his I.O.U. to his opponent with an easy air. Dolly Longestaffe was too tipsy to make up his own account. That was to be left for some future occasion.


"I suppose you'll be here to-morrow,--that is to-night," said Miles.

"I suppose you'll be here tomorrow, - that is, tonight," said Miles.


"Certainly,--only one thing," answered Felix.


"I think these things should be squared before we play any more!"

"Only I think these things should be squared before we play any more."


"What do you mean by that?" said Grasslough angrily. "Do you mean to hint anything?"


"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready-money, that's all. But I'm not going to stand on P's and Q's with you. I'll give you your revenge to-night."

"I never hint anything, my Grassy," said Felix. "I believe when people play cards, it's intended to be ready money, that's all. But I'll give you your revenge tonight."


"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend, and we know each other. You have been rather rough to-night, Mr. Grendall."

"I was speaking to Lord Grasslough," said Felix. "He is an old friend. You have been rather rough tonight, Mr. Grendall."


"Rough;--what the devil do you mean by that?"

"Rough - what the devil do you mean by that?"


"And I think it will be as well that our account should be settled before we begin again."


"A settlement once a week is the kind of thing I'm used to," said Grendall.

"I'm used to settling once a week," said Grendall.


There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he got himself taken home, calculated that if he could realize his spoil, he might begin the campaign again with horses, servants, and all luxuries as before. If all were paid, he would have over 3,000!

There was nothing more said; but the young men did not part on good terms. Felix, as he went home, calculated that if he were fully paid, he might begin the campaign again with all luxuries as before. He would have over 3,000!


Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs. Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. "Paul," she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything."

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and the world appeared to go well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles about Fisker, Montague, and Montague are already known to the reader. He was also troubled about his love, though when he thought about the success of the great railway he hoped that he might be blessed by Henrietta's acceptance. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, and yet returned to.
But there was another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning he got a cab in Piccadilly and travelled to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door, and asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
He was shown into the drawing-room, and stood by the table until Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry.
"Paul," she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased, "Paul, say that that letter of yours means nothing. Say that, and I will forgive everything."


"I cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand in hers.


"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?"

"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises mean nothing?"


"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present difficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion; and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his sympathies.

"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come here at her bidding because he had felt that to stay away would be cowardly, but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but he hardly knew how to justify it to her. He had heard things about her past life which, had he heard them before, would have saved him from this difficulty. But he had loved her - did love her in a way, in spite of her offences.


"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As she said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtle was not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark,--a dark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.

"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As she said this she looked round at the mirror, as though to see whether she was become haggard with age. She was very lovely, though not in the current fashion. She was a dark brunette with large round blue eyes, that could be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls around her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips were full, and she blushed easily. Her bust was beautifully shaped; but she dressed as though she were oblivious of her own charms.
Her dress, when Montague had seen her, was always black, always new, always nice, well-fitting, and above all simple. She was certainly a beautiful woman, and she knew it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.


"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.

"You are as beautiful as ever you were," he said.


"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means." Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him.

"Psha! I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down and tell me what it means." She seated herself opposite him.


"You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off. Why is it to be--off? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. "Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." Of course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her? "Now tell me everything," she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet.

"You told me nothing in your letter, except that it was - off. Why? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, looking up in his face. "Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic to see you, after so many months - and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss."
Of course he kissed her, with a long, warm embrace. While she knelt there at his feet what could he do but embrace her?
"Now tell me everything," she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet.


[Illustration: "I have come across the Atlantic to see you."]


She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London railway station, from which she started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had offered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he did not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family. She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been missing.

She did not look like a woman whom a man might scorn unpunished. Paul felt, even while she was caressing him, that she might well turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love.
He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, distress and poverty - for he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool they were engaged to marry. He had given her the whole history of his life. This was when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life, except that she was a widow, travelling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London railway station, he was full of a lover's ardour.
But when he remembered that he must tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of Mrs. Hurtle, he became embarrassed. She had spoken hardly a word of her own family, although she had said that her husband had been a great miscreant, and her release from him had been the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. After she had left him, he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carbury, and became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness and charm, that he had passed weeks in her daily company without feeling that anything had been missing.


He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially succeeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that she may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that moment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to his widow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he said ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learned through the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not quite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that there certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was, that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very clever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. "She always had money when she was here," Hamilton Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. "I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership, if you mean that," said Hamilton K. Fisker.

He had told Roger, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met on a train without knowing anything about her. Roger did all he could to persuade him to forget his love - and partially succeeded. Paul saw his mistake. Yet, though he was half false to his widow, he was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and said that ought to bind him.
Then he returned to California, and learned through Hamilton K. Fisker that in San Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that there certainly had been, and that he still existed. The fact, however, best known was, that she had shot a man through the head in Oregon. She had not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed. Everybody thought that she was very clever and very beautiful, but also very dangerous.
"She always had money," Hamilton Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from. I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership."


Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader will remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had promised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day. She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate before he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England, and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to London! "Tell me everything," she said, leaning upon him and looking up into his face.

Montague had seen her in New York on his second journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes - for this was before the great railway - and she had promised to follow him. Since then they had not met till this day. Letters from her had reached him in England, and he had answered these by trying to explain that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to London!
"Tell me everything," she said, looking up into his face.


"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers." As she said this, she looked as though she could be very persistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her own. "I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful." As she said this his arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"

"On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were in London, and so I came here. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I did not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless. I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I did you had quarrelled with your uncle and left. And now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful. And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"


His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as that. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she sat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his wife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet with properly apologetic courtesy. "I am engaged here about this railway," he said. "You have heard, I suppose, of our projected scheme?"

His position was very embarrassing. He ought to have gently pushed her away, have sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have been his conduct, he did not intend to become her husband. But he was either too much or too little of a man to do that. He did vow to himself that she should never be his wife. But he did not know how to say this with properly apologetic courtesy.
"I am engaged here about this railway," he said. "You have heard of it, I suppose?"


"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did."

"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the best of it has been transferred to you Londoners."


"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling of shame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.

"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some shame, as he thought how little he knew about it.


"No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."

"No; I am a member of the firm; but the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."


"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of course?"

"Ah - I have heard of him. A great man. You know him, of course?"


"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week."


"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power;--what grandeur!"

"I would sooner see that man than any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power; what grandeur!"


"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."


"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the rivers."


"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said Montague.


"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this, that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that he is not honest?"

Commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. Do they say here that he is not honest?"


"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing against him."

"As he is my partner perhaps I had better say nothing against him."


"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."

"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor. I would like to see Melmotte - to kiss his hand; but I would not condescend to speak a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."


"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."


"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."

"Ah - you mean that he covets worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment, but they do so stealthily, pretending to despise what they really love. Here is a man who boldly says that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more wealth a man has the greater and the nobler he can be."


Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connected with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. "Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.

Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. He believed the Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and it was shocking to see it lavished on such a subject.
"Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.


"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove."


"But you are prospering in this business?"


"Yes,--I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no alternative."

"I suppose so. It is hard to tell. I fell into it altogether against my will. I had no alternative."


"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."


"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."


"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now,--now that we have got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"

"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now - tell me what all this means. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"


He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited for an answer. "You know I did," he said.

She waited, and he had to answer. "You know I did," he said.


"I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you doubt me?"

"I thought so. You are sure of my love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak like a man. Do you doubt me?"


He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. "No, indeed."


"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl from a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! You owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not taken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hate me, say so."

"Oh, with what half-mouthed words you speak - like a girl from a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me! I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you - if not your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hate me, say so."


"Winifrid," he said, calling her by her name.


"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there another woman that you love?"


At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. "There is another," he said.

At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. "There is another," he said.


She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would commence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standing quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the left. "Oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why I am told that I am to be--off."

She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would begin her attack. She fixed her eyes upon him, squeezing her hands together.
"Oh," she whispered; "that is the reason why I am told that it is - off."


"What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that? Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to--hate me."

"What better reason than that? Unless, indeed, as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to hate me."


"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too little like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other reasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies."

"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that you were about to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you love some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough, too little like the dolls of your own country! Let me hear your other reasons, so that I may tell you that they are lies."


The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle. His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. "We know too little of each other," he said.

The reasons were very difficult to tell. Paul knew little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.
"We know too little of each other," he said.


"What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking. Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once."

"What more do you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Did I ever refuse to answer you? Is it about my money? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. What more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of that."


He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he was all at sea. "I wish to hear nothing," he said.

He knew that his position was indefensible. It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any other reasons, but to have stuck to his assertion that he loved another woman. He would have been called false, and a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever punishment an angry lady could inflict upon him. But his position would have been plain. Now he was all at sea.
"I wish to hear nothing," he said.


"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together? Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?"

"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That is a poor excuse to make to a woman - after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York? Is that not mean?"


"No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--this lady?"

"No; a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is this lady?"


He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "I can not name her."

He knew that he could not mention Hetta Carbury's name. He had never asked her for her love, and had received no assurance that he was loved. "I cannot name her."


"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections? That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?"

"And I, who have come from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have changed your affections? You can shake hands with me, and go away without a pang?"


"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?"


"Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir."


"Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me."

"Do you now refuse to keep your promise?"


"Then, sir, are you not a liar?" It would have taken him long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs. Hurtle. He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence. "Oh, Paul," she said, changing at once into softness,--"I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also?"

"Then, sir, are you not a liar?"
It would have taken him long to explain that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, because of the rumours he had heard of Mrs. Hurtle's past life, and his uncertainty about her husband.
"Oh, Paul," she said, changing into softness, "I am pleading for my life! Have you given a promise to this lady also?"


"No," said he. "I have given no promise."


"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?"

"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her against me,- some woman who has nothing to suffer, who, for all you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?"


"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you."

"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will any woman love you as I do - live for you as I do? I have come here without a single friend. I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you."


"Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here? I am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr. Melmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr. Paul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if you dare." The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The position was one which required thought. After a while he took up his hat to go. "Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?"

"Certainly. Were you not engaged to me? Am I to have you visit, and to risk her insults, and perhaps be told to take myself off? I am here because you promised to make me your wife, and I am not ashamed of the fact. If she had doubted me, I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I said is false - if you dare."
Paul felt he could hardly leave the room in order to denounce a lady whom he had certainly ill-used. He needed to think; and he took up his hat to go.
"Do you mean to tell her?"


"I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember all your promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me." Then she let him go without another word.

"I have no friend here but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember your promises. Remember all our love - and be good to me." Then she let him go.


Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader in the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added. She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with much confidence. If the reader does not understand so much from her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain. She has been made to say that her object in work was to provide for the need of her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature. Detestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely and abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself were substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was true to her children,--especially devoted to one of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance their interests.

Dishonest as were Lady Carbury's letters to the editors, and the system by which she was trying to achieve success, nevertheless her statements about herself were largely true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was devoted to her children - one of them especially - and was ready to work her nails off to advance their interests.


She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereupon created a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her. In doing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faults had never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimental infidelity to her husband. When as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which young people generally desire to experience. Sir Patrick at the time of his marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in money, suspicious in temper, and intelligent. He knew how to govern men. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing mean about him. He had his attractive qualities. He was a man who might be loved;--but he was hardly a man for love. The young Lady Carbury had understood her position and had determined to do her duty. She had resolved before she went to the altar that she would never allow herself to flirt and she had never flirted. For fifteen years things had gone tolerably well with her,--by which it is intended that the reader should understand that they had so gone that she had been able to tolerate them. They had been home in England for three or four years, and then Sir Patrick had returned with some new and higher appointment. For fifteen years, though he had been passionate, imperious, and often cruel, he had never been jealous. A boy and a girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother had been over indulgent;--but the mother, according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her duty by them. But from the commencement of her life she had been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceit necessary to her. Her mother had run away from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between this and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any one to care for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous, and untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position. But she was clever, and had picked up an education and good manners amidst the difficulties of her childhood,--and had been beautiful to look at. To marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,--and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidst great difficulties. She would smile within five minutes of violent ill-usage. Her husband would even strike her,--and the first effort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from all the world. In latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the ill effects of the evil. But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and lived a life of manoeuvres. Then, at last, when she felt that she was no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex. If fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship, if the married state does not exact from a woman the necessity of debarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man except her lord, Lady Carbury was not faithless. But Sir Carbury became jealous, spoke words which even she could not endure, did things which drove even her beyond the calculations of her prudence,--and she left him. But even this she did in so guarded a way that, as to every step she took, she could prove her innocence. Her life at that period is of little moment to our story, except that it is essential that the reader should know in what she had been slandered. For a month or two all hard words had been said against her by her husband's friends, and even by Sir Patrick himself. But gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came again together and she remained the mistress of his house till he died. She brought him home to England, but during the short period left to him of life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid. But the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and some people were never tired of reminding others that in the course of her married life Lady Carbury had run away from her husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.

She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been made a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill-used her.
As for Lady Carbury, when as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a wealthy man of forty-four, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of romantic love. Sir Patrick was red-faced, stout, bald, short-tempered, generous in money, suspicious and intelligent. He knew how to govern men. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing mean about him. He had his attractive qualities. He was a man who might be loved; but he was hardly a man for love. The young Lady Carbury had understood her position and had determined to do her duty. She had never flirted. For fifteen years her marriage had been tolerable. A boy and a girl had been born, to whom both father and mother had been over-indulgent.
Lady Carbury was clever, educated, and beautiful. To do her duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition - and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidst great difficulties. But she had all her life been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceit necessary. She would smile within five minutes of violent ill-usage. Her husband would strike her - and her first reaction would be to conceal the fact from all the world.
For fifteen years, though Sir Patrick had been imperious and often cruel, he had never been jealous. But in later years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to hide its ill effects. But in doing this she schemed, and lied. Then, at last, when she was no longer quite a young woman, she attempted to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex. Lady Carbury was not faithless. But Sir Patrick became jealous, spoke words which even she could not endure - and she left him.
Her life at that time is of little importance to our story, except that the reader should know how she had been slandered. For a month or two hard words had been said against her by Sir Patrick and his friends. But gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came together again. She remained the mistress of his house till he died. She brought him home to England when he had become a worn-out invalid. But scandal had followed her, and some people were never tired of reminding others that Lady Carbury had once run away from her husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.


Sir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no means great wealth. To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he had left 1,000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision that after her death the latter sum should be divided between his son and daughter. It therefore came to pass that the young man, who had already entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolved no necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequently lived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with which his mother and his sister were obliged to maintain a roof over their head. Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldom at the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her future life amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood. She had hitherto endeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her position she was bound to take the good and the bad together. She had certainly encountered hitherto much that was bad. To be scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage; to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would for the remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a year or two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay for such good things as she had hitherto enjoyed. Now at length had come to her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness. She thought much about herself, and resolved on one or two things. The time for love had gone by, and she would have nothing to do with it. Nor would she marry again for convenience. But she would have friends,--real friends; friends who could help her,--and whom possibly she might help. She would, too, make some career for herself, so that life might not be without an interest to her. She would live in London, and would become somebody at any rate in some circle. Accident at first rather than choice had thrown her among literary people, but that accident had, during the last two years, been supported and corroborated by the desire which had fallen upon her of earning money. She had known from the first that economy would be necessary to her,--not chiefly or perhaps not at all from a feeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together on a thousand a year,--but on behalf of her son. She wanted no luxury but a house so placed that people might conceive of her that she lived in a proper part of the town. Of her daughter's prudence she was as well convinced as of her own. She could trust Henrietta in everything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not very trustworthy. And yet Sir Felix was the darling of her heart.

Sir Patrick left a moderate fortune, though by no means great wealth. To his son, Sir Felix Carbury, he had left 1,000 a year; and to his widow the same, to be divided between his son and daughter after her death. The young man was in the army when his father died, and, needing no home of his own, often lived in his mother's house. Yet he now had an income equal to that with which his mother and sister had to keep a roof over their head.
Now Lady Carbury, when she was widowed at the age of forty, did not intend to pass her future life in grieving. She had endeavoured to do her duty, taking the good and the bad together. She had certainly encountered much that was bad. To be scolded, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by his violence; to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would be tarnished for the rest of her life; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become his nurse, was a high price to pay for the good things she had enjoyed. Now at length had come her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness.
She thought much about herself, and resolved that she would have nothing to do with love. Nor would she marry again for convenience. But she would have friends - real friends, who could help her, and whom possibly she might help. She would make some career for herself, and live in London, and become somebody in some circle.
She had known from the first that economy was necessary - not for herself and her daughter, but on behalf of her son. Of her daughter's prudence she was convinced. She could trust Henrietta in everything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not very trustworthy. And yet Sir Felix was the darling of her heart.


At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story is supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had altogether wasted the property which his father had left him. So much the mother knew,--and knew, therefore, that with her limited income she must maintain not only herself and daughter, but also the baronet. She did not know, however, the amount of the baronet's obligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. A baronet, holding a commission in the Guards, and known to have had a fortune left him by his father, may go very far in getting into debt; and Sir Felix had made full use of all his privileges. His life had been in every way bad. He had become a burden on his mother so heavy,--and on his sister also,--that their life had become one of unavoidable embarrassments. But not for a moment had either of them ever quarrelled with him. Henrietta had been taught by the conduct of both father and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man and in a son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and especially from a daughter. The lesson had come to her so early in life that she had learned it without the feeling of any grievance. She lamented her brother's evil conduct as it affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it affected herself. That all her interests in life should be made subservient to him was natural to her; and when she found that her little comforts were discontinued, and her moderate expenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she never complained. Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank of life in which she had been born always did eat up everything.

At the time of the writing of the three letters, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had sold out from his regiment, and, to tell the truth, had altogether wasted the property which his father had left him. The mother knew that she must maintain the young baronet. She did not know, however, the amount of his debts - nor, indeed, did he. He had gone a very long way into debt; his life had been in every way bad. He had become so heavy a burden on his mother and sister that their life had become full of unavoidable embarrassments.
But neither of them ever quarrelled with Sir Felix. Henrietta had been taught by her parents' conduct that every vice might be forgiven in a man, though every virtue was expected from a woman. It seemed natural to her that her interests should be subservient to her brother's; and when she found that her little comforts were curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up all that was his mother's, she never complained. Henrietta had been taught to think that men always did eat up everything.


The mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might better be said, more open to censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which her heart had rivetted itself. Even during the career of his folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of stopping him on his road to ruin. In everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. She was almost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings which if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from their extravagance. She had so indulged him that even in her own presence he was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently conscious of the injustice which he did to others.

The mother's feeling was more open to blame. Even on his road to ruin she had hardly said a word to stop him. She had spoilt him as a boy, and she spoilt him as a man. She was almost proud of his vices and extravagances. She had so indulged him that he was never ashamed of his selfishness or conscious of the injustice which he did to others.


From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literature which had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in the work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted into hard work by which money if possible might be earned. So that Lady Carbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggles was speaking the truth. Tidings had reached her of this and the other man's success, and,--coming near to her still,--of this and that other woman's earnings in literature. And it had seemed to her that, within moderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes. Why should she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady Carbury's look-out into the future, was destined to make all things straight! Who was so handsome as her son? Who could make himself more agreeable? Who had more of that audacity which is the chief thing necessary to the winning of heiresses? And then he could make his wife Lady Carbury. If only enough money might be earned to tide over the present evil day, all might be well.

Because of this, Lady Carbury's dabbling in literature had become hard work by which money might be earned. When she wrote to the editors of her struggles, she was speaking the truth. Other women made good earnings from literature. Why should she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry an heiress? Who was so handsome as her son? Who could make himself more agreeable? If only enough money might be earned to tide her over the present evil day, all might be well.


The one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all this was probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was to be obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certain people to say that her books were good. She did work hard at what she wrote,--hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly; and was, by nature, a clever woman. She could write after a glib, common-place, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knack of spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast surface. She had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book that the critics should say was good. Had Mr. Broune, in his closet, told her that her book was absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the same time to have it violently praised in the "Breakfast Table," it may be doubted whether the critic's own opinion would have even wounded her vanity. The woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though she was.

However, Lady Carbury was convinced that she would achieve success not by producing good books, but by persuading people to say that her books were good. She worked hard and wrote quickly; and was a clever woman. She wrote with a glib, sprightly style, and had acquired the knack of spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast surface. She had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book that the critics should say was good. The woman was false from head to foot, yet there was much of good in her.


Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. And yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemed that he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though the futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,--but by a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. He had in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He was very dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. His hair, which was never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features. On his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. He was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face. It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He had given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiority in fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thought about his outward man. As yet the little world of his associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather how devoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness of his life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more than he had done by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the evil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had cowered.

Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? Surely any lack of training could not have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched his outward comforts. He lacked the imagination to think of future misery even a month ahead, or a week - or a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted and well fed; in this he had the instincts of a horse, not even the higher sympathies of a dog.
He had never loved anyone enough to deny himself a moment's gratification. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. His hair was nearly black, soft and silky. His eyes were long and brown, made beautiful by the perfect arch of the eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was in the fine moulding of the nose and mouth. He had a well-formed moustache, but no beard; his chin was perfect.
He was as excellent in figure as in face. It was admitted by men and asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He gave himself airs on many scores; his money, his title, and his intellect. But he was clever enough to dress simply and avoid the appearance of vanity. As yet, his associates had hardly found out how devoid he was of affection.
In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends. He had started a quarrel with a brother officer; and when he should have acted with manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather. That was now a year since, but men still remembered that Felix Carbury had cowered.


It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well aware that it was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lacked something in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel. But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even a young girl believe that he felt it. When he talked of love, he not only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought so. From this fault he had already failed with one young lady reputed to have 40,000, who had refused him because, as she naively said, she knew "he did not really care." "How can I show that I care more than by wishing to make you my wife?" he had asked. "I don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care," she said. And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall. Now there was another young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced in time, whom Sir Felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting diligence. Her wealth was not defined, as had been the 40,000 of her predecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that. It was, indeed, generally supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless. It was said that in regard to money for ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of this young lady. He had great concerns;--concerns so great that the payment of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to him,--as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops. Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to any one marrying his daughter during the present season of his outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. Lady Carbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, was very anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a proper use of the intimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping Croesus of the day.

It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was quite prepared for it. But he lacked the art of making love. He had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, and felt no repugnance at declaring a passion he did not feel. But he knew so little of love, that when he talked of it he showed that he thought it was nonsense. Due to this fault he had already failed with one young lady, who had refused him because "he did not really care." And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall.
Now there was another young lady whom Sir Felix was urged to pursue. Her wealth was known to be very great. It was, indeed, generally supposed to be endless, since the young lady's father had such great concerns in business that ten or twenty thousand pounds was but a trifle to him. Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to anyone marrying his daughter during his present outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. Lady Carbury was very anxious that Sir Felix should pursue this magnate's daughter.


And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who was a baronet, the head of that branch of the Carburys, and her mother's darling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice. She also was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less dark and with features less absolutely regular. But she had in her countenance a full measure of that sweetness of expression which seems to imply that consideration of self is subordinated to consideration for others. This sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother. And her face was a true index of her character. Again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to each other; whether they would have been thus different had both been taken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in her parent's heart? She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, by the command of money, and by the temptations of too early acquaintance with the world. At the present time she was barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of London society. Her mother did not frequent balls, and during the last two years there had grown upon them a necessity for economy which was inimical to many gloves and costly dresses. Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home with her mother in Welbeck Street. Occasionally the world saw her, and when the world did see her the world declared that she was a charming girl. The world was so far right.

And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, so a few words should suffice. She was very lovely, like her brother; though less dark and with less regular features. But her face had a sweetness of expression altogether lacking in her brother. And her face was a true index of her character. Again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to each other? She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, and by the temptations of money and society.
At present she was twenty-one, and had not seen much of London society. Her mother did not go to balls, and the need for economy had not allowed for gloves and costly dresses. Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home. Occasionally the world saw her, and declared that she was a charming girl. The world was so far right.


But for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already commenced in real earnest. There was another branch of the Carburys, the head branch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall. Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to be said, but here, at this moment, it need only be told that he was passionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom Henrietta had seen.

But for Henrietta Carbury romance had already commenced in earnest. There was another branch of the Carburys, the head branch, which was represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall: a gentlemen of which, at this moment, it need only be said that he was passionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom Henrietta had seen.