per, you know,
Lucy."

"Why did he tell me that Mr. Greystock isn't a gentleman? Mr.
Greystock is a gentleman. I meant to say nothing more than that."

"But you did say more, Lucy."

"When he said that Mr. Greystock wasn't a gentleman, I told him it
wasn't true. Why did he say it? He knows all about it. Everybody
knows. Would you think it wise to come and abuse him to me, when you
know what he is to me? I can't bear it, and I won't. I'll go away
to-morrow, if your mamma wishes it." But that going away was just
what Lady Fawn did not wish.

"I think you know, Lucy, you should express your deep sorrow at what
has passed."

"To your brother?"

"Yes."

"Then he would abuse Mr. Greystock again, and it would all be as bad
as ever. I'll beg Lord Fawn's pardon if he'll promise beforehand not
to say a word about Mr. Greystock."

"You can't expect him to make a bargain like that, Lucy."

"I suppose not. I daresay I'm very wicked, and I must be left wicked.
I'm too wicked to stay here. That's the long and the short of it."

"I'm afraid you're proud, Lucy."

"I suppose I am. If it wasn't for all that I owe to everybody
here, and that I love you all so much, I should be proud of being
proud;--because of Mr. Greystock. Only it kills me to make Lady Fawn
unhappy."

Amelia left the culprit, feeling that no good had been done, and Lady
Fawn did not see the delinquent till late in the afternoon. Lord Fawn
had, in the meantime, wandered out along the river all alone to brood
over the condition of his affairs. It had been an evil day for him in
which he had first seen Lady Eustace. From the first moment of his
engagement to her he had been an unhappy man. Her treatment of him,
the stories which reached his ears from Mrs. Hittaway and others,
Mr. Camperdown's threats of law in regard to the diamonds, and Frank
Greystock's insults, altogether made him aware that he could not
possibly marry Lady Eustace. But yet he had no proper and becoming
way of escaping from the bonds of his engagement. He was a man with a
conscience, and was made miserable by the idea of behaving badly to
a woman. Perhaps it might have been difficult to analyse his misery,
and to decide how much arose from the feeling that he was behaving
badly, and how much from the conviction that the world would accuse
him of doing so; but, between the two, he was wretched enough. The
punishment of the offence had been commenced by Greystock's unavenged
insults;--and