Linmere went back to his chair, and sat down with a sullen face; but he could not rest there.  He rose, and going into an inner room, brought out an ebony box, which he opened, and from which he took a miniature in a golden case.  He hesitated a moment before touching the spring, and when he did so the unclosing revealed the face of a young girl—­a fair young girl in her early youth—­not more than eighteen summers could have scattered their roses over her, when that beautiful impression was taken.  A ripe southern face, with masses of jet-black hair, and dark brilliant eyes.  There was a dewy crimson on her lips, and her cheeks were red as damask roses.  A bright, happy face, upon which no blight had fallen.

“She was beautiful—­beautiful as an houri!” said Mr. Paul Linmere, speaking slowly, half unconsciously, it seemed, his thoughts aloud.  “And when I first knew her she was sweet and innocent.  I made her sin.  I led her into the temptation she was too weak to resist.  Women are soft and silly when they are in love, and because of that, men have to bear all the blame.  She was willing to trust me—­she ought to have been more cautious.  Who blames me, if I tired of her?  A man does not always want a moping complaining woman hanging about him; and she had a deuced unpleasant way of forcing herself upon me when it was particularly disagreeable to have her do so.  Well—­but there is no use in retrospection.  She was drowned—­she and her unborn child, and the dead can never come back—­no, never!”

He sprang up and rang the bell sharply.  Directly his valet, Pietro, a sleepy-looking and swarthy Italian, appeared.

“Bring me a glass of brandy, Pietro; and look you, sir, you may sleep to-night on the lounge in my room.  I am not feeling quite well, and may have need of you before morning.”

The man looked surprised, but made no comment.  He brought the stimulant, his master drank it off, and then threw himself, dressed as he was, on the bed.

Upper Tendom was ringing with the approaching nuptials of Miss Harrison and Mr. Linmere.  The bride was so beautiful and wealthy, and so insensible to her good fortune in securing the most eligible man in her set.  Half the ladies in the city were in love with Mr. Linmere.  He was so distingue, carried himself so loftily, and yet was so gallantly condescending, and so inimitably fascinating.  He knew Europe like a book, sang like a professor, and knew just how to hand a lady her fan, adjust her shawl, and take her from a carriage.  Accomplishments which make men popular, always.

Early in July Mr. Trevlyn and Margie, accompanied by a gay party, went down to Cape May.  Mr. Trevlyn had long ago forsworn everything of the kind; but since Margie Harrison had come to reside with him he had given up his hermit habits, and been quite like other nice gouty old gentleman.

The party went down on Thursday—­Mr. Paul Linmere followed on Saturday.  Margie, had hoped he would not come; in his absence she could have enjoyed the sojourn, but his presence destroyed for her all the charms of sea and sky.  She grew frightened, sometimes, when she thought how intensely she hated him.  And in October she was to become his wife.