as frankly as though that miserable mortal envelope, emptied of
everything but hopeless passion, were indeed the son of a duke.

Inattentive, he heard her only in snatches, till the final
confidential burst: ". . . glad if you would express an opinion.
Look at her, so charming, such a great favourite, so generally
admired! It would be too sad. We all hoped she would make a
brilliant marriage with somebody very rich and of high position,
have a house in London and in the country, and entertain us all
splendidly. She's so eminently fitted for it. She has such hosts
of distinguished friends! And then--this instead! . . . My heart
really aches."

Her well-bred if anxious whisper was covered by the voice of
professor Moorsom discoursing subtly down the short length of the
dinner table on the Impermanency of the Measurable to his venerable
disciple. It might have been a chapter in a new and popular book
of Moorsonian philosophy. Patriarchal and delighted, old Dunster
leaned forward a little, his eyes shining youthfully, two spots of
colour at the roots of his white beard; and Renouard, glancing at
the senile excitement, recalled the words heard on those subtle
lips, adopted their scorn for his own, saw their truth before this
man ready to be amused by the side of the grave. Yes!
Intellectual debauchery in the froth of existence! Froth and
fraud!

On the same side of the table Miss Moorsom never once looked
towards her father, all her grace as if frozen, her red lips
compressed, the faintest rosiness under her dazzling complexion,
her black eyes burning motionless, and the very coppery gleams of