Everybody was good to her.  That pale and joyless face, that look of patient, hopeless suffering which she tried to disguise every now and then with a faint forced smile; and silvery little ripple of society laughter, seemed unconsciously to implore pity and pardon.  Lady Maulevrier uttered no word of reproach.  ’My dearest, Fate has not been kind to you,’ she said, gently, after telling Lesbia of Lady Kirkbank’s visit.  ’The handsomest women are seldom the happiest.  Destiny seems to have a grudge against them.  And if things have gone amiss it is I who am most to blame.  I ought never to have entrusted you with such a woman as Georgina Kirkbank.  But you will be happier next season, I hope, dearest.  You can live with Mary and Hartfield.  They will take care of you.’

Lesbia shuddered.

‘Do you think I am going back to the society treadmill?’ she exclaimed.  ’No, I have done with the world.  I shall end my days here, or in a convent.’

’You think so now, dear, but you will change your mind by-and-by.  A fancy that has lasted only a few weeks cannot alter your life.  It will pass as other dreams have passed.  At your age you have the future before you.’

‘No, it is the past that is always before me,’ answered Lesbia.  ’My future is a blank.’

The bills came pouring in; dressmaker, milliner, glover, bootmaker, tailor, stationer, perfumer; awful bills which made Lady Maulevrier’s blood run cold, so degrading was their story of selfish self-indulgence, of senseless extravagance.  But she paid them all without a word.  She took upon her shoulders the chief burden of Lesbia’s wrongdoing.  It was her indulgence, her weak preference which had fostered her granddaughter’s selfishness, trained her to vanity and worldly pride.  The result was ignominious, humiliating, bitter beyond all common bitterness; but the cup was of her own brewing, and she drank it without a murmur.

Parliament was prorogued; the season was over; and Lord Hartfield was established at Fellside for the autumn—­he and his wife utterly happy in their affection for each other, but not without care as to their surroundings, which were full of trouble.  First there was Lesbia’s sorrow.  Granted that it was a grief which would inevitably wear itself out, as other such griefs have done from time immemorial; but still the sorrow was there, at their doors.  Next, there was the state of Lady Maulevrier’s health, which gave her old medical adviser the gravest fears.  At Lord Hartfield’s earnest desire a famous doctor was summoned from London; but the great man could only confirm Mr. Horton’s verdict.  The thread of life was wearing thinner every day.  It might snap at any hour.  In the meantime the only regime was repose of body and mind, an all-pervading calm, the avoidance of all exciting topics.  One moment of violent agitation might prove fatal.

Knowing this, how could Lord Hartfield call her ladyship to account for the presence of that mysterious old man under Steadman’s charge?—­how venture to touch upon a topic which, by Mary’s showing, had exercised a most disturbing influence upon her ladyship’s mind on that solitary occasion when the girl ventured to approach the subject?