making a great success."

This last sentence, freely translated, might be taken to mean: "I
should not like such an elegant young woman to make an utter fool of
herself."

Mr. Vawdrey came in while critic and poet were at work, and was told
what they were doing. He evinced no unworthy jealousy, but seemed glad
that Lord Mallow should be so useful.

"It's a very fine poem," he said, "but there's too much metaphysics in
it. I told Mabel so the other day. She must alter a good deal of it if
she wants to be understanded of the people."

"My dear Roderick, my poem is metaphysical or it is nothing," Mabel
answered pettishly.

She could bear criticism from Lord Mallow better than criticism from
Roderick. After this it became an established custom for Lord Mallow to
drop in every day to inspect the progress of Lady Mabel's poems in the
course of their preparation for the press. The business part of the
matter had been delegated to him, as much more _au fait_ in such things
than homely rustic Rorie. He chose the publisher and arranged the size
of the volume, type, binding, initials, tail-pieces, every detail. The
paper was to be thick and creamy, the type mediaeval, the borders were
to be printed in carmine, the initials and tail-pieces specially drawn
and engraved, and as quaint as the wood-cuts in an old edition of "_Le
Lutrin_." The book was to have red edges, and a smooth gray linen
binding with silver lettering. It was to be altogether a gem of
typographic art, worthy of Firmin Didot.

By the end of May, Lady Mabel's poems were all in type, and there was
much discussion about commas and notes of admiration, syllables too
much or too little, in the flowery morning-room at Kensington, what
time Roderick Vawdrey--sorely at a loss for occupation--wasted the
summer hours at races or regattas within easy reach of London, or went
to out-of-the-way places, to look at hunters of wonderful repute,
which, on inspection, were generally disappointing.

CHAPTER V.

Crumpled Rose-Leaves.

Violet Tempest had been away from home nearly a year, and to the few
old servants remaining at the Abbey House, and to the villagers who had
known and loved her, it seemed as if a light had gone out.

"It's like it was after the Squire's death, when miss and her ma was
away," said one gossip to another; "the world seems empty."

Mrs. Winstanley and her husband had been living as became people of
some pretension to rank and fashion. They