d and approaching dinner, she groveled on the white
bearskin rug before the fire, and gave way to passionate tears--only to
recollect in a moment the position of things. Then she got up and shook
with passion against fate, and civilization, and custom--against the
whole of life. She could not even cry in peace. No! She must play the
game! So her eyes had to be bathed, the window opened, and the icy air
breathed in, and at last she had quieted herself down to the look of a
person with a headache, when the dressing-gong sounded, and her maid
came into the room.

CHAPTER XXXII

This, the last dinner at Montfitchet, passed more quietly than the rest.
The company were perhaps subdued, from their revels of the night before;
and every one hates the thought of breaking up a delightful party and
separating on the morrow, even when it has only been a merry gathering
like this.

And two people were divinely happy, and two people supremely sad, and
one mean little heart was full of bitterness and malice unassuaged. So
after dinner was over, and they were all once more in the white
drawing-room, the different elements assorted themselves.

Lady Anningford took Tristram aside and began, with great tact and much
feeling, to see if he could be cajoled into a better mood; and finally
got severely snubbed for her trouble, which hurt her more because she
realized how deep must be his pain than from any offense to herself.
Then Laura caught him and implanted her last sting:

"You are going away to-morrow, Tristram,--into your new life--and when
you have found out all about your wife--and her handsome friend--you may
remember that there was one woman who loved you truly--" and then she
moved on and left him sitting there, too raging to move.

After this, his uncle had joined him, had talked politics, and just at
the end, for the hearty old gentleman could not believe a man could
really be cold or indifferent to as beautiful a piece of flesh and blood
as his new niece, he had said:

"Tristram, my dear boy,--I don't know whether it is the modern
spirit--or not--but, if I were you, I'd be hanged if I would let that
divine creature, your wife, out of my sight day or night!--When you get
her alone at Wrayth, just kiss her until she can't breathe--and you'll
find it is all right!"

With which absolutely sensible advice, he had slapped his nephew on the
back, fixed in his eyeglass, and walked off; and Tristram had stood
there, his