to their wine. Then said the
baron, rising and stirring the fire--then said the baron, briefly and
significantly,

"Well!"

"As regards the property you spoke of," answered Randal, "I am willing
to purchase it on the terms you name. The only point that perplexes me
is how to account to Audley Egerton, to my parents, to the world, for
the power of purchasing it."

"True," said the baron, without even a smile at the ingenious and truly
Greek manner in which Randal had contrived to denote his meaning, and
conceal the ugliness of it--"true, we must think of that. If we could
manage to conceal the real name of the purchaser for a year or so, it
might be easy,--you may be supposed to have speculated in the Funds;
or Egerton may die, and people may believe that he had secured to you
something handsome from the ruins of his fortune."

"Little chance of Egerton's dying."

"Humph!" said the baron. "However, this is a mere detail, reserved for
consideration. You can now tell us where the young lady is?"

"Certainly. I could not this morning,--I can now. I will go with you to
the count. Meanwhile, I have seen Madame di Negra; she will accept Frank
Hazeldean if he will but offer himself at once."

"Will he not?"

"No! I have been to him. He is overjoyed at my representations, but
considers it his duty to ask the consent of his parents. Of course they
will not give it; and if there be delay, she will retract. She is
under the influence of passions on the duration of which there is no
reliance."

"What passions? Love?"

"Love; but not for Hazeldean. The passions that bring her to accept his
hand are pique and jealousy. She believes, in a word, that one who
seems to have gained the mastery over her affections with a strange
suddenness, is but blind to her charms because dazzled by Violante's.
She is prepared to aid in all that can give her rival to Peschiera; and
yet, such is the inconsistency of woman" (added the young philosopher,
with a shrug of the shoulders), "that she is also prepared to lose all
chance of securing him she loves, by bestowing herself on another!"

"Woman, indeed, all over!" said the baron, tapping his snuff-box (Louis
Quinze), and regaling his nostrils with a scornful pinch. "But who is
the man whom the fair Beatrice has thus honoured? Superb creature! I had
some idea of her myself when I bought up her debts; but it might have
embarrassed me, in more general plans, as regards the count. All for the