aware at
this moment, of what, two years ago, she would have done for him. He
had an idea that even now, at this hour, she was giving him his
chance with Philippa. There would no doubt be competition; there
always had been, always would be competition; but her charming eyes
seemed to assure him that he should have his chance.

They called him to her side, where, with a movement of protection
that was not lost on him, she had made a place for him apart. She
begged him just to look at young Reggy Lawson, who sat in agony,
sustaining a ponderous topic with Miss Probyn. He remembered Reggy?
Her half-remorseful smile implied that he had good cause to remember
him. He did. He was sorry for young Reggy, and hoped that he found
consolation in the thought that Mr. Higginson was no longer young.

He remarked that Reggy was looking uncommonly fit. "So," he added
irrelevantly, "is Mrs. Viveash. Don't you think?"

Fanny Brocklebank looked at Mrs. Viveash. It was obvious that she
was giving her her chance, and that Mrs. Viveash was making the very
most of it. She was leaning forward now, with her face thrust out
toward Furnival; and on her face and on her mouth and in her eyes
there burned visibly, flagrantly, the ungovernable, inextinguishable
flame. As for the young man, while his eyes covered and caressed
her, the tilt of his body, of his head, of his smile, and all his
features expressed the insolence of possession. He was sure of her;
he was sure of himself; he was sure of many things. He, at any rate,
would never be disconcerted. Whatever happened he was safe. But
she--there were things that, if one thing happened, she would have
to face; and as she sat there, wrapped in her flame, she seemed to
face them, to fling herself on the front of danger. You could see
she was ready to take any risks, to pay any price for the chance
that Fanny was giving her.

It really was too bad of Fanny.

"Why did you ask them?" Straker had known Fanny so long that he was
privileged to inquire.

"Because--they wanted to be asked."

Fanny believed, and said that she believed, in giving people what
they wanted. As for the consequences, there was no mortal lapse or
aberration that could trouble her serenity or bring a blush to her
enduring candor. If you came a cropper you might be sure that
Fanny's judgment of you would be pure from the superstition of
morality. She herself had never swerved in affection or fidelity to
Will Brocklebank. She