“In spite of which you don’t think she’ll be saved?”

“She thinks she will—­that’s all I can tell you.  There’s no doubt that when once she brought herself to accept her real remedy, as she calls it, she began to enjoy a relief that she had never known.  That feeling, very new and in spite of what she pays for it most refreshing, has given her something to hold on by, begotten in her foolish little mind a belief that, as she says, she’s on the mend and that in the course of time, if she leads a tremendously healthy life, she’ll be able to take off her muzzle and become as dangerous again as ever.  It keeps her going.”

“And what keeps you?  You’re good until the parties begin again.”

“Oh she doesn’t object to me now!” smiled Mrs. Meldrum.  “I’m going to take her abroad; we shall be a pretty pair.”  I was struck with this energy and after a moment I enquired the reason of it.  “It’s to divert her mind,” my friend replied, reddening again a little, I thought.  “We shall go next week:  I’ve only waited to see how your mother would be before starting.”  I expressed to her hereupon my sense of her extraordinary merit and also that of the inconceivability of Flora’s fancying herself still in a situation not to jump at the chance of marrying a man like Dawling.  “She says he’s too ugly; she says he’s too dreary; she says in fact he’s ‘nobody,’” Mrs. Meldrum pursued.  “She says above all that he’s not ‘her own sort.’  She doesn’t deny that he’s good, but she finds him impossibly ridiculous.  He’s quite the last person she would ever dream of.”  I was almost disposed on hearing this to protest that if the girl had so little proper feeling her noble suitor had perhaps served her right; but after a while my curiosity as to just how her noble suitor had served her got the better of that emotion, and I asked a question or two which led my companion again to apply to him the invidious term I have already quoted.  What had happened was simply that Flora had at the eleventh hour broken down in the attempt to put him off with an uncandid account of her infirmity and that his lordship’s interest in her had not been proof against the discovery of the way she had practised on him.  Her dissimulation, he was obliged to perceive, had been infernally deep.  The future in short assumed a new complexion for him when looked at through the grim glasses of a bride who, as he had said to some one, couldn’t really, when you came to find out, see her hand before her face.  He had conducted himself like any other jockeyed customer—­he had returned the animal as unsound.  He had backed out in his own way, giving the business, by some sharp shuffle, such a turn as to make the rupture ostensibly Flora’s, but he had none the less remorselessly and basely backed out.  He had cared for her lovely face, cared for it in the amused and haunted way it had been her poor little delusive gift to make men care; and her lovely face, damn it, with the monstrous