now she felt sure of her end.

Most people liked Walter, even when they laughed at his simplicity, for
it was the simplicity of a generous nature; we can not therefore wonder
if he was too confident, and from Lady Lufa's behavior presumed to think
she looked upon him as worthy of a growing privilege. If she regarded
literature as she professed to regard it, he had but to distinguish
himself, he thought, to be more acceptable than wealth or nobility could
have made him. As to material possibilities, the youth never thought of
them; a worshiper does not meditate how to feed his goddess! Lady Lufa
was his universe and everything in it--a small universe and scantily
furnished for a human soul, had she been the prime of women! He scarcely
thought of his home now, or of the father who made it home. As to God,
it is hardly a question whether he had ever thought of Him. For can that
be called thinking of another, which is the mere passing of a name
through the mind, without one following thought of relation or duty?
Many think it a horrible thing to say there is no God, who never think
how much worse a thing it is not to heed Him. If God be not worth
minding, what great ruin can it be to imagine His non-existence?

What, then, had Walter made of it by leaving home? He had almost
forgotten his father; had learned to be at home in London; had passed
many judgments, some of them more or less just, all of them more or less
unjust; had printed enough for a volume of little better than truisms
concerning life, society, fashion, dress, etc., etc.; had published two
or three rather nice songs, and had a volume of poems almost ready; had
kept himself the greater part of the time, and had fallen in love with
an earl's daughter.

"Everybody is gone," said Lady Lufa, "and we are going to-morrow."