‘Smithson is caught at last, and I am glad of it,’ said Georgie.

’The creature is an abominable flirt, and has broken more hearts than any man in London.  He was all but the death of one of the dearest girls I know.’

‘Mr. Smithson breaks hearts!’ exclaimed Lesbia, languidly.  ’I should not have thought that was in his line.  Mr. Smithson is not an Adonis, nor are his manners particularly fascinating.’

’My child how fresh you are!  Do you suppose it is the handsome men or the fascinating men for whom women break their hearts in society?  It is the rich men they all want to marry—­men like Smithson, who can give them diamonds, and yachts, and a hunting stud, and half a dozen fine houses.  Those are the prizes—­the blue ribbons of the matrimonial race-course—­men like Smithson, who pretend to admire all the pretty women, who dangle, and dangle, and keep off other offers, and give ten guinea bouquets, and then at the end of the season are off to Hombourg or the Scotch moors, without a word.  Do you think that kind of treatment is not hard enough to break a penniless girl’s heart?  She sees the golden prize within her grasp, as she believes; she thinks that she and poverty have parted company for ever; she imagines herself mistress of town house and country houses, yachts and stables; and then one fine morning the gentleman is off and away!  Do not you think that is enough to break a girl’s heart?’

’I can imagine that girl steeped to the lips in poverty might be willing to marry Mr. Smithson’s houses and yachts,’ answered Lesbia, in her low sweet voice, with a faint sneer even amidst the sweetness, ’but, I think it must have been a happy release for any one to be let off the sacrifice at the last moment.’

‘Poor Belle Trinder did not think so.’

‘Who was Belle Trinder?’

’An Essex parson’s daughter whom I took under my wing five years ago—­a splendid girl, large and fair, and just a trifle coarse—­not to be spoken of in the same day with you, dearest; but still a decidedly handsome creature.  And she took remarkably well.  She was a very lively girl, “never ran mute,” Sir George used to say.  Sir George was very fond of her.  She amused him, poor girl, with her rather brainless rattle.’

‘And Mr. Smithson admired her?’

’Followed her about everywhere, sent her whole flower gardens in the way of bouquets and Japanese baskets, and floral parures for her gowns, and opera boxes and concert tickets.  Their names were always coupled.  People used to call them Bel and the Dragon.  The poor child made up her mind she was to be Mrs. Smithson.  She used to talk of what she would do for her own people—­the poor old father, buried alive in a damp parsonage, and struggling every winter with chronic bronchitis; the four younger sisters pining in dulness and penury; the mother who hardly knew what it was to rest from the continual worries of daily life.’