said. Then his
conscience upbraided him, and he corrected himself. "But, God knows
that I have no reason to complain. I have been fortunate."

"Yes, indeed."

"I sometimes think it is better to remember the good things we have
than to regret those that are gone."

"That is excellent philosophy, Lord George. And therefore I go out
hunting, and break my bones, and fall into rivers, and ride about with
such men as Mr. Price. One has to make the best of it, hasn't one? But
you, I see, have no regrets."

He paused for a moment, and then found himself driven to make some
attempt at gallantry. "I didn't quite say that," he replied.

"You were able to re-establish yourself according to your own tastes. A
man can always do so. I was obliged to take whatever came. I think that
Mary is so nice."

"I think so too, I can assure you."

"You have been very fortunate to find such a girl; so innocent, so
pure, so pretty, and with a fortune too. I wonder how much difference
it would have made in your happiness if you had seen her before we had
ever been acquainted. I suppose we should never have known each other
then."

"Who can say?"

"No; no one can say. For myself, I own that I like it better as it is.
I have something to remember that I can be proud of."

"And I something to be ashamed of."

"To be ashamed of!" she said, almost rising in anger.

"That you should have refused me!"

She had got it at last. She had made her fish rise to the fly. "Oh,
no," she said; "there can be nothing of that. If I did not tell you
plainly then, I tell you plainly now. I should have done very wrong to
marry a poor man."

"I ought not to have asked you."

"I don't know how that may be," she said in a very low voice, looking
down to the ground. "Some say that if a man loves he should declare his
love, let the circumstances be what they may. I rather think that I
agree with them. You at any rate knew that I felt greatly honoured,
though the honour was out of my reach." Then there was a pause, during
which he could find nothing to say. He was trapped by her flattery, but
he did not wish to betray his wife by making love to the woman. He
liked her words and her manner; but he was aware that she was a thing
sacred as being another man's wife. "But it is all better as it is,"
she said with a laugh, "and Mary Lovelace is the happiest girl of her
year. I am so glad you are coming to London, and do so hope you'll come
and see me."

"Certa