one of our mutual friends, and I heard him talking rather loudly in
a room where he and two or three other men had gone to smoke. He
said something that made me stand still and wonder whether I was mad
or dreaming. 'Pity me when I'm married to Catherine Harland!' Pity
him? I listened,--I knew it was wrong to listen, but I could not
help myself. 'Well, you'll get enough cash with her to set you all
right in the world, anyhow,'--said another man, 'You can put up with
a plain wife for the sake of a pretty fortune.' Then he,--my love!--
spoke again--'Oh, I shall make the best of it,' he said--'I must
have money somehow, and this is the easiest way. There's one good
thing about modern life,--husbands and wives don't hunt in couples
as they used to do, so when once the knot is tied I shall shift my
matrimonial burden off my shoulders as much as I can. She'll amuse
herself with her clothes and the household,--and she's fond of me,
so I shall always have my own way. But it's an awful martyrdom to
have to marry one woman on account of empty pockets when you're in
love with another.' I heard,--and then--I don't know what happened."

Her eyes stared at me so pitifully that I was full of sorrow for
her.

"Oh, you poor Catherine!" I said, and taking her hand, I kissed it
gently. The tears in her eyes brimmed over.

"They found me lying on the floor insensible,"--she went on,
tremulously--"And I was very ill for a long time afterwards. People
could not understand it when I broke off my engagement. I told
nobody why--except HIM. He seemed sorry and a little ashamed,--but I
think he was more vexed at losing my fortune than anything else. I
said to him that I had never thought about being plain,--that the