letters about Mr. George Meredith's novels, and (when abroad) was a
perfect Baedeker, or Murray, or Mr. Augustus Hare: instructing through
correspondence. So the matron complained, but this was not the worst of
it. There was an unhappy family history, of a kind infinitely more
common in fiction than in real life. To be explicit, even according to
the ideas of the most abject barbarians, the young people, unwittingly,
were too near akin for matrimony.

'There is nothing for it but to tell both of them the truth,' said
Merton. 'This is not a case in which we can be concerned.'

The resolute matron did not take his counsel. The man was told, not the
girl, who died in painful circumstances, still writing. Her letters were
later given to the world, though obviously not intended for publication,
and only calculated to waken unavailing grief among the sentimental, and
to make the judicious tired. There was, however, a case in which Merton
may be said to have succeeded by a happy accident. Two visitors, ladies,
were ushered into his consulting room; they were announced as Miss
Baddeley and Miss Crofton.

Miss Baddeley was attired in black, wore a thick veil, and trembled a
good deal. Miss Crofton, whose dress was a combination of untoward but
decisive hues, and whose hat was enormous and flamboyant, appeared to be
the other young lady's _confidante_, and conducted the business of the
interview.

'My dear friend, Miss Baddeley,' she began, when Miss Baddeley took her
hand, and held it, as if for protection and sympathy. 'My dear friend,'
repeated Miss Crofton, 'has asked me to accompany her, and state her
case. She is too highly strung to speak for herself.'