flashed across his mind,--some remembrance, too,
of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did a
suspicion come to him that he ought to stop and watch by his wife.

CHAPTER L

How Lady Glencora Came Back from Lady Monk's Party

Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we
last saw him,--against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the
staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn
passed across his mind, This thing that he was about to do, or to
attempt,--was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her
whom he pretended to love? What would be her future if she consented
now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband? Of his
own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he
had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he
cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming
years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent
a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted
to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now, during these
moments, he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply
because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge
her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when
society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to
live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be
denied to her? Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a
woman's life in such circumstances. Would Glencora be happy with him
while living such a life simply because he loved her? And, under such
circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her? Did
he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least
trustworthy? Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the
stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true
feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had
better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets. It
mattered little what might become of himself. If he could drink
himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be
not altogether undesirable.

But then the remembrance of his aunt's two hundred pounds came upon
him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a
certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for
which the money had been given