a reluctance to my taking the only step which can
save me from actual ruin. But what does Doltimore suspect? What ground
has he for suspicion, beyond that want of command of countenance which
it is easy to explain,--and which it is yet easier for a woman and a
great lady [here Lumley sneered] to acquire?"

"I know not; it has been put into his head. Paris is so full of slander.
But, Vargrave--Lumley--I tremble, I shudder with terror, if ever
Doltimore should discover--"

"Pooh! pooh! Our conduct at Paris has been most guarded, most discreet.
Doltimore is Self-conceit personified,--and Self-conceit is horn-eyed.
I am about to leave Paris,--about to marry, from under your own roof; a
little prudence, a little self-control, a smiling face, when you wish
us happiness, and so forth, and all is safe. Tush! think of it no more!
Fate has cut and shuffled the cards for you; the game is yours, unless
you revoke. Pardon my metaphor; it is a favourite one,--I have worn
it threadbare; but human life _is_ so like a rubber at whist. Where is
Evelyn?"

"In her own room. Have you no pity for her?"

"She will be very happy when she is Lady Vargrave; and for the rest, I
shall neither be a stern nor a jealous husband. She might not have given
the same character to the magnificent Maltravers."

Here Evelyn entered; and Vargrave hastened to press her hand, to whisper
tender salutations and compliments, to draw the easy-chair to the
fire, to place the footstool,--to lavish the _petits soins_ that are so
agreeable, when they are the small moralities of love.

Evelyn was more than usually pale,--more than usually abstracted. There
was no lustre in her eye, no life in her step; she seemed unconscious
of the crisis to which she approached. As the myrrh and hyssop which
drugged the malefactors of old into forgetfulness of their doom,
so there are griefs which stupefy before their last and crowning
consummation!

Vargrave conversed lightly on the weather, the news, the last book.
Evelyn answered but in monosyllables; and Caroline, with a hand-screen
before her face, preserved an unbroken silence. Thus gloomy and joyless
were two of the party, thus gay and animated the third, when the clock
on the mantelpiece struck ten; and as the last stroke died, and Evelyn
sighed heavily,--for it was an hour nearer to the fatal day,--the door
was suddenly thrown open, and pushing aside the servant, two gentlemen
entered the room.

Caroline, the first t