spoken, and whatever Vandeleur may have been, Paul was not a man to give
any woman a chance of trifling with him twice. So my poor Janet had to
reap what her folly had sown, as best she might.

Janet left one little child, a daughter, called Janet, after her; and
this child, becoming an orphan at an early age by the death, next, of
Stephen Vandeleur, was brought up with his family in Ireland.

She was in Scotland once when she was about fourteen, and I saw her, and
was not favourably impressed. She was quiet and prim and proper, as cold
as an icicle: a very pretty little girl, I owned that; but then I had
thought to find something of _my_ Janet, and was disappointed. Her eyes
were indeed blue, but looked one in the face calmly as though they had
belonged to a woman of forty; and her hair and long eye-lashes were as
dark as night. She had just this of my Janet, her pink and snow
wild-rose complexion. She seemed to me, in all else, a Vandeleur to her
finger-tips.

She occasionally paid Duncan long visits; and as she grew up, I heard
that Duncan tried to make these visits as frequent and as lengthy as
possible. She was immensely admired, it seemed, and Duncan liked her to
stay with him because of the people she attracted to his house. I was
sure this was true. It was so like one of Duncan's horrid ways. He still
lived in that white brick edifice, and was richer then ever. A good deal
of gossip drifted to me, in the far north as I was. I was told that
Janet had a Manchester millionaire, an American railway king, and a real
live lord, all madly in love with her--and she not yet quite nineteen!

Just then Paul returned home, and Duncan wrote inviting me to come down
and see them. Paul was to stay with them--and Duncan was quite proud