probably with the aid of Christian Moxey--he might obtain a
salaried position. The letter was despatched, and with feverish
impatience he awaited a reply.

Nine days passed, and he heard nothing. Half that delay sufficed to
bring out all the self-tormenting capacities of a nature such as
his. To his mother's conjectural explanations he could lend no ear.
Doubtless Lady Whitelaw (against whom, for subtle reasons, he was
already prejudiced) had taken offence; either she would not reply at
all, or presently there would come a few lines of polite
displeasure, intimating her disinclination to aid his project. He
silently raged against 'the woman'. Her neglect was insolence. Had
she not delicacy enough to divine the anxiety natural to one in his
dependent position? Did she take him for an every-day writer of
mendicant appeals? His pride fed upon the outrage and became fierce.

Then arrived a small glossy envelope, containing a tiny sheet of
very thick note-paper, whereon it was written that Lady Whitelaw
regretted her tardiness in replying to him (caused by her absence
from home), and hoped he would be able to call upon her, at ten
o'clock next morning, at the house of her sisters, the Misses Lumb,
where she was stopping for a day--she remained his sincerely.

Having duly contorted this note into all manner of painful meanings,
Godwin occupied an hour in making himself presentable (scornful that
he should deem such trouble necessary), and with furiously beating
heart set out to walk through Twybridge. Arrived at the house, he
was led by a servant into the front room on the ground floor, where
Lady Whitelaw, alone, sat reading a newspaper. Her features were of
a very common order, and nothing distinguished her from middle-aged