, which was a pity, for I remember him before; but at all events
he wore neat, plain gold studs, and not a great big diamond or opal. I
can't bear men wearing jewels like that; why don't they wear a string
of pearls round their neck? I have been in such a fright. H. sent me
a letter--not in his own handwriting. Isn't it silly? I don't want my
name in the papers. Tom says they will put him in prison "like
winking" if he is not careful. It is stupid; and of course I shall not
answer it, or have anything to do with him. Mr. Roberts dined here
this evening. I think he has too much to say for himself. I like
quiet and gentlemanly men. Captain King and his party got 135
pheasants last Thursday, to say nothing of hares and rabbits; so I
suppose they have good shooting. I wish they would ask Tom. _C. J._
has disappeared from Brighton, so far as I can make out; and I beleive
(_sic_) he is haunting the neighbourhood of Lewes, looking out for a
certain old Mother Hubbard. Happily he has got nothing to fear from
the Chancery people: I suppose they daren't interfere with the Church.
My sealskin coat has come back; it is beautiful now, and I have got a
hat and feather exactly the same colour as my Indian red skirt, so I
think they will go very well together. The sealskin looks blacker than
it was. The sea is rough to-night, but I hope to get down the Pier
to-morrow morning. Brighton is fearfully crowded just now, and you
should come away from that sleepy old Lewes, and have a look at your
friends. Good-night, dear Nan. MADGE.'

CHAPTER XIII.

ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN.

The woman is not born who can quite forget the man who has once asked
her to become his wife, even though at the moment she may have rejected
the offer without a thought of hesitation. Life with her, as with all
of us, is so much a matter of experiment, and so rarely turns out to be
what one anticipated, that even when she is married, and surrounded
with children, husband, and friends, she cannot but at times bethink
herself of that proposal, and wonder what would have happened if she
had accepted it. Would her own life have been fuller, happier, less
occupied with trivial and sordid cares? Would he have become as great
and famous if she had married him, and hampered him with early ties?
Might not she--supposing things to have gone the other way--have saved
him from utter ruin, and have given him courage and hope? After all,
there is nothing more i