e of women is most deeply
interested in concealing. Before a word had passed, he regretted that
Emily had left them together.

"I wish I had your cheerful disposition," she began, abruptly. "I am out
of spirits or out of temper--I don't know which; and I don't know why.
Do you ever trouble yourself with thinking of the future?"

"As seldom as possible, Miss de Sor. In such a situation as mine, most
people have prospects--I have none."

He spoke gravely, conscious of not feeling at ease on his side. If
he had been the most modest man that ever lived, he must have seen in
Francine's face that she loved him.

When they had first been presented to each other, she was still under
the influence of the meanest instincts in her scheming and selfish
nature. She had thought to herself, "With my money to help him, that
man's celebrity would do the rest; the best society in England would be
glad to receive Mirabel's wife." As the days passed, strong feeling
had taken the place of those contemptible aspirations: Mirabel had
unconsciously inspired the one passion which was powerful enough to
master Francine--sensual passion. Wild hopes rioted in her. Measureless
desires which she had never felt before, united themselves with
capacities for wickedness, which had been the horrid growth of a few
nights--capacities which suggested even viler attempts to rid herself
of a supposed rivalry than slandering Emily by means of an anonymous
letter. Without waiting for it to be offered, she took Mirabel's arm,
and pressed it to her breast as they slowly walked on. The fear of
discovery which had troubled her after she had sent her base letter to
the post, vanished at that inspiriting moment. She bent her head near
enough to him when he spoke to feel his breath on her face.

"There is a strange similarity," she said softly, "between your position
and mine. Is there anything cheering in _my_ prospects? I am far away
from home--my father and mother wouldn't care if they never saw me
again. People talk about my money! What is the use of money to such a
lonely wretch as I am? Suppose I write to London, and ask the lawyer if
I may give it all away to some deserving person? Why not to you?"

"My dear Miss de Sor--!"

"Is there anything wrong, Mr. Mirabel, in wishing that I could make you
a prosperous man?"

"You must not even talk of such a thing!"

"How proud you are!" she said submissively.

"Oh, I can't bear to think of you in that misera