on't suppose there was any harm, except the love of bad company;
that seems a fascination which some men cannot resist. I don't care two
straws myself whether there was harm or not; but it is a bitter sort of
recollection for _her_."

"They were both quite young, were they not?"

"Markland was over thirty," said the young man, who was but twenty-two;
"and she is--oh, she is, I suppose, about my age."

He knew, indeed, exactly what was her age; but what did that matter to a
stranger? She was superior to him, it was true, in that as in all other
things.

"I have heard they were not very happy," Dick said. He cared no more for
the Marklands than he did for the domestic concerns of the guard who
had looked at his ticket two minutes ago; but anything answered for
conversation, which in the present state of his mind he could not exert
himself to make brilliant.

"Oh, happy!" cried Warrender. "How could they be happy? She a woman with
the finest perceptions, and a mind--such as you seldom find in a woman;
and he the sort of person who could find pleasure in the conversation
that goes on in a house like that."

Dick did not say anything for some time; he felt as though all the people
he met in these parts must go on like this, in absolute unconsciousness,
giving him blow after blow. "I don't mean to take up the cudgels for
that sort of people," he said at last; "but they are--not always stupid,
you know." But to this semi-defence his companion gave no heed.

"She was no more than a child when she was married," said Warrender,
with excitement, "a little girl out of the nursery. How was she to know?
She had never seen anybody, and to expect her to be able to judge at
sixteen----"

"That is always bad," said Dick, musing. He was like the other, full of
his own thoughts. "Yet some girls are very much developed at sixteen. I
knew a fellow once who---- And she went entirely to the bad."

"What are you talking of?" cried Warrender, almost roughly. "She was
like a little angel herself, and knew nothing different--and when that
fellow--who had been a handsome fellow they say--fell in love with her,
and would not leave her alone for a moment, I, for one, forgive her for
being deceived. I admire her for it," he went on. "She was as innocent
as a flower. Was it possible she could suspect what sort of a man he
was? It has given her such a blow in her ideal that I doubt if she will
ever recover. It seems as if she could not believe