f the late mad hours. As was his custom, he
began to enquire whether any good could be elicited from all this
evil. He owed his late adversary sundry moneys, which he had never
contemplated the possibility of repaying to the person who had eloped
with his wife. Had he shot his creditor the account would equally have
been cleared; and this consideration, although it did not prompt, had
not dissuaded, the late desperate deed. As it was, he now appeared still
to enjoy the possession both of his wife and his debts, and had lost
his friend. Bad generalship, Sir Lucy! Reconciliation was out of the
question. The Duke's position was a good one. Strongly entrenched with a
flesh wound, he had all the sympathy of society on his side; and, after
having been confined for a few weeks, he could go to Paris for a few
months, and then return, as if the Graftons had never crossed his eye,
rid of a troublesome mistress and a troublesome friend. His position was
certainly a good one; but Sir Lucius was astute, and he determined to
turn this Shumla of his Grace. The quarrel must have been about her
Ladyship. Who could assign any other cause for it? And the Duke must now
be weak with loss of blood and anxiety, and totally unable to resist
any appeal, particularly a personal one, to his feelings. He determined,
therefore, to drive Lady Afy into his Grace's arms. If he could only get
her into the house for an hour, the business would be settled.

These cunning plans were, however, nearly being crossed by a very simple
incident. Annoyed at finding that her feelings could be consulted only
by sacrificing those of another woman, Miss Dacre, quite confident that,
as Lady Aphrodite was innocent in the present instance, she must be
immaculate, told everything to her father, and, stifling her tears,
begged him to make all public; but Mr. Dacre, after due consideration,
enjoined silence.

In the meantime the young Duke was not in so calm a mood as Sir Lucius.
Rapidly the late extraordinary events dashed through his mind, and
already those feelings which had prompted his soliloquy in the garden
were no longer his. All forms, all images, all ideas, all memory, melted
into Miss Dacre. He felt that he loved her with a perfect love: that she
was to him what no other woman had been, even in the factitious delirium
of early passion. A thought of her seemed to bring an entirely novel
train of feelings, impressions, wishes, hopes. The world with her must
be a