explain,--and which it is yet easier for a woman and a great lady [here
Lumley sneered] to acquire?"

"I know not; it has been put into his head. Paris is so full of slander.
But, Vargrave--Lumley--I tremble, I shudder with terror, if ever
Doltimore should discover--"

"Pooh! pooh! Our conduct at Paris has been most guarded, most discreet.
Doltimore is Self-conceit personified,--and Self-conceit is horn-eyed. I
am about to leave Paris,--about to marry, from under your own roof; a
little prudence, a little self-control, a smiling face, when you wish us
happiness, and so forth, and all is safe. Tush! think of it no more!
Fate has cut and shuffled the cards for you; the game is yours, unless
you revoke. Pardon my metaphor; it is a favourite one,--I have worn it
threadbare; but human life _is_ so like a rubber at whist. Where is
Evelyn?"

"In her own room. Have you no pity for her?"

"She will be very happy when she is Lady Vargrave; and for the rest, I
shall neither be a stern nor a jealous husband. She might not have given
the same character to the magnificent Maltravers."

Here Evelyn entered; and Vargrave hastened to press her hand, to whisper
tender salutations and compliments, to draw the easy-chair to the fire,
to place the footstool,--to lavish the _petits soins_ that are so
agreeable, when they are the small moralities of love.

Evelyn was more than usually pale,--more than usually abstracted. There
was no lustre in her eye, no life in her step; she seemed unconscious of