ep the Duke out of harm's way Lady Glencora had opened her arms to
Madame Goesler. Such, at least, was the interpretation which Madame
Goesler chose to give to the history of the last three years. They
had not, she thought, quite understood her. When once she had made up
her mind not to marry the Duke, the Duke had been safe from her;--as
his jewels and money should be safe now that he was dead.

Three years had passed by, and nothing had been done of that which
she had intended to do. Three years had passed, which to her, with
her desires, were so important. And yet she hardly knew what were her
desires, and had never quite defined her intentions. She told herself
on this very journey that the time had now gone by, and that in
losing these three years she had lost everything. As yet,--so she
declared to herself now,--the world had done but little for her. Two
old men had loved her; one had become her husband, and the other had
asked to become so;--and to both she had done her duty. To both she
had been grateful, tender, and self-sacrificing. From the former she
had, as his widow, taken wealth which she valued greatly; but the
wealth alone had given her no happiness. From the latter, and from
his family, she had accepted a certain position. Some persons, high
in repute and fashion, had known her before, but everybody knew her
now. And yet what had all this done for her? Dukes and duchesses,
dinner-parties and drawing-rooms,--what did they all amount to? What
was it that she wanted?

She was ashamed to tell herself that it was love. But she knew
this,--that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote
herself to some one. All the elegancies and outward charms of life
were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end.
As an end themselves they were nothing. She had devoted herself to
this old man who was now dead, and there had been moments in which
she had thought that that sufficed. But it had not sufficed, and
instead of being borne down by grief at the loss of her friend, she
found herself almost rejoicing at relief from a vexatious burden.
Had she been a hypocrite then? Was it her nature to be false? After
that she reflected whether it might not be best for her to become
a devotee,--it did not matter much in what branch of the Christian
religion, so that she could assume some form of faith. The sour
strictness of the confident Calvinist or the asceticism of St.
Francis might suit her