afterwards."

Bottles agreed. Could he have seen the little scheme that was dawning in
his brother's brain, perhaps he would not have assented so readily.

When her old lover went away reluctantly to dress for dinner on the
previous day, Madeline Croston sat down to have a good think, and the
result was not entirely satisfactory. It had been very pleasant to
see him, and his passionate declaration of enduring love thrilled her
through and through, and even woke an echo in her own breast. It made
her proud to think that this man, who, notwithstanding his ugliness and
awkwardness, was yet, her instinct told her, worth half a dozen smart
London fashionables, still loved her and had never ceased to love her.
Poor Bottles! she had been very fond of him once. They had grown up
together, and it really gave her some cruel hours when a sense of what
she owed to herself and her family had forced her to discard him.

She remembered, as she sat there this evening, how at the time she had
wondered if it was worth it--if life would not be brighter and happier
if she made up her mind to fight through it by her honest lover's side.
Well, she could answer that question now. It had been well worth it. She
had not liked her husband, it is true; but on the whole she had enjoyed
a good time and plenty of money, and the power that money brings. The
wisdom of her later days had confirmed the judgment of her youth. As
regards Bottles himself, she had soon got over that fancy; for years
she had scarcely thought of him, till Sir Eustace told her that he was
coming home, and she had that curious dream about him. Now he had come
and made love to her, not in a civilised, philandering sort of a way,
such as she was accustomed to, but with a passion and a fire and an
utter self-abandonment which, while it thrilled her nerves with a