this the picture he can afford to look on with pleasure or with hope?
The man who sees in his downfall no sacrifice or no degradation, has no
sympathy of mine. To tell me that he is stout-hearted is absurd; he is
simply unfeeling."

Nelly's face and even her neck became crimson, and her eyes flashed
indignantly; but she repressed the passionate words that were almost on
her lips, and taking the photograph from him, replaced it in the drawer,
and turned the key.

"Has Marion written to you?" asked he, after a pause.

"Only a few lines. I 'm afraid she 's not very happy in her exalted
condition, after all, for she concluded with these words: 'It is a cruel
blow that has befallen you, but don't fancy that there are not miseries
as hard to bear in life as those which display themselves in public and
flaunt their sufferings before the world.'"

"That old fop's temper, perhaps, is hard to bear with," said he,
carelessly.

"You must write to George L'Estrange, Gusty," said she, coaxingly.
"There are no letters he likes so much as yours. He says you are
the only one who ever knew how to advise without taking that tone of
superiority that is so offensive, and he needs advice just now,--he is
driven half wild with dictation and interference."

She talked on in this strain for some time, till he grew gradually
calmer; and his features, losing their look of intensity and eagerness,
regained their ordinary expression of gentleness and quiet.

"Do you know what was passing through my mind just now?" said he,
smiling half sadly. "I was wishing it was George had been Marion's
husband instead of Lord Culduff. We 'd have been so united, the very
narrowness of our fortunes would have banded us more closely together,
and I believe, firmly believe, we might have been happier in these days
of humble condition than ever we were in our palmy ones; do you agree
with me, Nelly?"

Her face was now crimson; and if Augustus had not been the least
observant of men, he must have seen how his words had agitated her. She
merely said, with affected indifference, "Who can tell how these things
would turn out? There 's a nice gleam of sunlight, Gusty. Let us have a
walk. I'll go for my hat."

She fled from the room before he had time to reply, and the heavy clap
of a door soon told that she had reached her chamber.

CHAPTER XXXIV. AT LOUVAIN

There are few delusions more common with well-to-do people than the
belief that if "put to i