the invited guest, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that he had
better refrain; the Marchioness, too, was about to plead, she did not
know exactly what, but she thought she would like to reassure the
Marquis. . . . On second thoughts she decided too that it would be better
(perhaps) to refrain. Well, to escape from the toils of an interesting
story (for I'm no longer a story-teller but a prefacer) I will say that
three nights later Sir Hugh took the Marchioness in to dinner; he sat in
his predecessor's chair, knowing nothing of him, thereby startling his
hosts, who, however, soon recovered their presence of mind. After dinner
the Marquis said, 'Now, Sir Hugh, I hope you will excuse me if I go
upstairs. I am taking the racing calendar with me, you see.'

My forerunner, the author of _Muslin_, should have written the story
sketched here with a failing hand, his young wit would have allowed him
to tell how the marriage that had wilted sadly after the death of Uncle
Toby now renewed its youth, opening its leaves to the light again,
shaking itself in the gay breezes floating by. He would have been able
in this story to present three exemplars of the domestic virtues,
telling how they went away to the seaside together, and returned
together to their castle among tall trees in October compelling the
admiration of the entire countryside. He would have shown us the
Marchioness entertaining visitors while the two men talked by the
fireplace, delighting in each other's company, and he would not have
forgotten to put them before us in their afternoon walks, sharing
between them Violet's knick-knacks, her wraps, her scarf, her fan, her
parasol, her cushion. His last chapter would probably be in a ball-room,
husband and lover standing by the door watching the Marchioness swinging
round the room on the arm of a young subaltern. 'Other women are younger
than she, Kilcarney, but who is as graceful? Have you ever seen a woman
hold herself like Violet?' One of the daughters (for there have been