Here was the refuge for a broken heart; here the scorn of men would but make tenderness increase; here was all pity and all charity with loving-kindness.  It was a delightful picture, conceived in the “come rest on this bosom,” and “a ministering angel thou” manner, with touches of allurement that made devotion all the sweeter.  He soon found that he had idealized a little; in the affair of young Bennett, while the men were contemptuous the women were virulent.  He had been rather fond of Agatha Gervase, and she, so other ladies said, had “set her cap” at him.  Now, when he rebelled, and lost the goodwill of his aunt, dear Miss Spurry, Agatha insulted him with all conceivable rapidity.  “After all, Mr. Bennett,” she said, “you will be nothing better than a beggar; now, will you?  You mustn’t think me cruel, but I can’t help speaking the truth. Write books!” Her expression filled up the incomplete sentence; she waggled with indignant emotion.  These passages came to Lucian’s ears, and indeed the Gervases boasted of “how well poor Agatha had behaved.”

“Never mind, Gathy,” old Gervase had observed.  “If the impudent young puppy comes here again, we’ll see what Thomas can do with the horse-whip.”

“Poor dear child,” Mrs. Gervase added in telling the tale, “and she was so fond of him too.  But of course it couldn’t go on after his shameful behavior.”

But Lucian was troubled; he sought vainly for the ideal womanly, the tender note of “come rest on this bosom.”  Ministering angels, he felt convinced, do not rub red pepper and sulfuric acid into the wounds of suffering mortals.

Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughan, a squire in the neighborhood, at whose board all the aristocracy of Caermaen had feasted for years.  Mr. Vaughan had a first-rate cook, and his cellar was rare, and he was never so happy as when he shared his good things with his friends.  His mother kept his house, and they delighted all the girls with frequent dances, while the men sighed over the amazing champagne.  Investments proved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughan had to sell the grey manor-house by the river.  He and his mother took a little modern stucco villa in Caermaen, wishing to be near their dear friends.  But the men were “very sorry; rough on you, Vaughan.  Always thought those Patagonians were risky, but you wouldn’t hear of it.  Hope we shall see you before very long; you and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas.”

“Of course we are all very sorry for them,” said Henrietta Dixon.  “No, we haven’t called on Mrs. Vaughan yet.  They have no regular servant, you know; only a woman in the morning.  I hear old mother Vaughan, as Edward will call her, does nearly everything.  And their house is absurdly small; it’s little more than a cottage.  One really can’t call it a gentleman’s house.”