CHAPTER IX.

"And now I live--O wherefore do I live?
And with that pang I prayed to be no more."
WORDSWORTH.

IT was about nine o'clock that evening, and Maltravers was alone in his
room. His carriage was at the door--his servants were arranging the
luggage--he was going that night to Burleigh. London--society-the
world--were grown hateful to him. His galled and indignant spirit
demanded solitude. At this time, Lumley Ferrers entered.

"You will pardon my intrusion," said the latter, with his usual
frankness--"but--"

"But what, sir? I am engaged."

"I shall be very brief. Maltravers, you are my old friend. I retain
regard and affection for you, though our different habits have of late
estranged us. I come to you from my cousin--from Florence--there has
been some misunderstanding between you. I called on her to-day after
you left the house. Her grief affected me. I have only just quitted
her. She has been told by some gossip or other some story or
other--women are credulous, foolish creatures;--undeceive her, and, I
dare say, all may be settled."

"Ferrers, if a man had spoken to me as Lady Florence did, his blood or
mine must have flowed. And do you think that words that might have