elf?" asked William, dispassionately.

"I think not; she seems to be well educated, and
good-looking--according to his report."

"Why didn't you mention it before?"

"Oh, his wish. We talked it all over when he was here. He has an idea
that a man about to be married always cuts a ridiculous figure."

The elder man looked puzzled.

"No mysteries--eh?"

"None whatever, I believe. A decent girl without fortune, that's all. I
suppose we shall see them before long."

The subject was shortly dismissed, and Eustace fell to reporting the
remarkable conversation in which he had taken part at the Mayor's
table. His brother was moved to no little mirth, but did not indulge in
such savage contemptuousness as distinguished the narrator. William
Glazzard viewed the world from a standpoint of philosophic calm; he
expected so little of men in general, that disappointment or vexation
could rarely befall him.

"These people," he observed, "think themselves pillars of society, and
the best of the joke is, that they really _are_ what they imagine.
Without tolerably honest fools, we should fare badly at the hands of
those who hate neither wits nor honesty. Let us encourage them, by all
means. I see no dawn as yet of the millennium of brains."

CHAPTER XI

The weather, for this time of year, was unusually bright in Paris. Each
morning glistened with hoar-frost; by noon the sky shone blue over
clean, dry streets, and gardens which made a season for themselves,
leafless, yet defiant of winter's melancholy. Lilian saw it all with
the eyes of a stranger, and often was able to forget her anxiety in the
joy of wonderful, new impressions.

One afternoon she was resting in the room at the hotel, whilst Quarrier
went about the town on some business or other. A long morning at the
Louvre had tired her, and her spirits drooped. In imagination she went
back to the days of silence and solitude in London; the memory affected
her with something of homesickness, a wish that the past could be
restored. The little house by Clapham Common had grown dear to her; in
its shelter she had shed many tears, but also had known much happiness:
that sense of security which was now lost, the hope that there she
might live always, hidden from the world's inquisitive gaze, justified
to her own conscience by love and calm. What now was before her? Not
only the elaborate deceit, the perpetual risk, weighed upon her heart;
she was summoned to a position