A few days after, his neighbour, Lord Spennymoor, called, and his visit was followed by an invitation to dinner.  The invitation was accepted.  Mike was on his best behaviour.  During dinner he displayed as much reserve as his nature allowed him to, but afterwards, yielding to the solicitations of the women, he abandoned himself, and when twelve o’clock struck they were still gathered round him, listening to him with rapt expression, as if in hearing of delightful music.  Awaking suddenly to a sense of the hour and his indiscretion, he bade Lord Spennymoor, who had sat talking all night with his brother in a far corner, good-night.

When the sound of the wheels of his trap died away, when the ladies had retired, Lord Spennymoor returned to the smoking-room, and at the end of a long silence asked his brother, who sat smoking opposite him, what he thought of Fletcher.

“He is one of those men who attract women, who attract nine people out of ten....  Call it magnetism, electro-biology, give it what name you will.  The natural sciences——­”

“Never mind the natural sciences.  Do you think that either of my girls were—­Victoria, for instance, was attracted by him?  I don’t believe for a moment his story of having saved Lady Seeley from drowning in Italy, but I’m bound to say he told it very well.  I can see the girls sitting round him listening.  Poor Mrs. Dickens, her eyes were——­”

“I shan’t ask her here again....  But tell me, do you think he’ll marry?”

“It would be very hard to say what will become of him.  He may suddenly weary of women and become a woman-hater, or perhaps he may develop into a sort of Baron Hulot.  He spoke about his writings—­he may become ambitious, and spend his life writing epics....  He may go mad!  He seemed interested in politics, he may go into Parliament; I fancy he would do very well in Parliament.  A sudden loathing of civilization may come upon him and send him to Africa or the Arctic Regions.  A man’s end is always infinitely more in accordance with his true character than any conclusion we could invent.  No writer, even if he have genius, is so extravagantly logical as nature.”

During the winter months Mike was extensively occupied with the construction of the mausoleum in red granite, which he was raising in memory of Helen; and this interest remained paramount.  He took many journeys to London on its account, and studied all the architecture on the subject, and with great books on his knees, he sat in the library making drawings or composing epitaphs and memorial poems.

Belthorpe Park was often full of visitors, and when walking with them on the terraces, his thoughts ran on Mount Rorke Castle, his own success, and Frank’s failure; and when he awoke in the sweet, luxurious rooms, in the houses where he was staying, his brain filled with febrile sensations of triumph, and fitful belief that he was above any caprice of destiny.