the fascinating men for whom women break their hearts in society? It is
the rich men they all want to marry--men like Smithson, who can give
them diamonds, and yachts, and a hunting stud, and half a dozen fine
houses. Those are the prizes--the blue ribbons of the matrimonial
race-course--men like Smithson, who pretend to admire all the pretty
women, who dangle, and dangle, and keep off other offers, and give ten
guinea bouquets, and then at the end of the season are off to Hombourg
or the Scotch moors, without a word. Do you think that kind of treatment
is not hard enough to break a penniless girl's heart? She sees the
golden prize within her grasp, as she believes; she thinks that she and
poverty have parted company for ever; she imagines herself mistress of
town house and country houses, yachts and stables; and then one fine
morning the gentleman is off and away! Do not you think that is enough
to break a girl's heart?'

'I can imagine that girl steeped to the lips in poverty might be willing
to marry Mr. Smithson's houses and yachts,' answered Lesbia, in her low
sweet voice, with a faint sneer even amidst the sweetness, 'but, I think
it must have been a happy release for any one to be let off the
sacrifice at the last moment.'

'Poor Belle Trinder did not think so.'

'Who was Belle Trinder?'

'An Essex parson's daughter whom I took under my wing five years ago--a
splendid girl, large and fair, and just a trifle coarse--not to be
spoken of in the same day with you, dearest; but still a decidedly
handsome creature. And she took remarkably well. She was a very lively
girl, "never ran mute," Sir George used to say. Sir George was very fond
of her. She amused him, poor girl, with her rather brainless rattle.'

'And Mr. Smithson admired her?'

'Followed her about everywhere, sent her whole flower gardens in the way
of bouquets and Japanese baskets, and floral _parures_ for her gowns,
and opera boxes and concert tickets. Their names were always coupled.
People used to call them Bel and the Dragon. The poor child made up her
mind she was to be Mrs. Smithson. She used to talk of what she would do
for her own people--the poor old father, buried alive in a damp
parsonage, and struggling every winter with chronic bronchitis; the four
younger sisters pining in dulness and penury; the mother who hardly knew
what it was to rest from the continual worries of daily life.'

'Poor things!' sighed Lesbia, gazing admiringly at t