breeze; and she did not court to win him, she flew.  In his more reflective hour the attractiveness of that lady which held the mirror to his features was paramount.  But he had passionate snatches when the magnetism of the flyer drew him in her wake.  Further to add to the complexity, he loved his liberty; he was princelier free; he had more subjects, more slaves; he ruled arrogantly in the world of women; he was more himself.  His metropolitan experiences did not answer to his liking the particular question, Do we bind the woman down to us idolatrously by making a wife of her?

In the midst of his deliberations, a report of the hot pursuit of Miss Durham, casually mentioned to him by Lady Busshe, drew an immediate proposal from Sir Willoughby.  She accepted him, and they were engaged.  She had been nibbled at, all but eaten up, while he hung dubitative; and though that was the cause of his winning her, it offended his niceness.  She had not come to him out of cloistral purity, out of perfect radiancy.  Spiritually, likewise, was he a little prince, a despotic prince.  He wished for her to have come to him out of an egg-shell, somewhat more astonished at things than a chicken, but as completely enclosed before he tapped the shell, and seeing him with her sex’s eyes first of all men.  She talked frankly of her cousins and friends, young males.  She could have replied to his bitter wish:  “Had you asked me on the night of your twenty-first birthday, Willoughby!” Since then she had been in the dust of the world, and he conceived his peculiar antipathy, destined to be so fatal to him, from the earlier hours of his engagement.  He was quaintly incapable of a jealousy of individuals.  A young Captain Oxford had been foremost in the swarm pursuing Constantia.  Willoughby thought as little of Captain Oxford as he did of Vernon Whitford.  His enemy was the world, the mass, which confounds us in a lump, which has breathed on her whom we have selected, whom we cannot, can never, rub quite clear of her contact with the abominated crowd.  The pleasure of the world is to bowl down our soldierly letter I; to encroach on our identity, soil our niceness.  To begin to think is the beginning of disgust of the world.

As soon the engagement was published all the county said that there had not been a chance for Laetitia, and Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson humbly remarked, in an attitude of penitence, “I’m not a witch.”  Lady Busshe could claim to be one; she had foretold the event.  Laetitia was of the same opinion as the county.  She had looked up, but not hopefully.  She had only looked up to the brightest, and, as he was the highest, how could she have hoped?  She was the solitary companion of a sick father, whose inveterate prognostic of her, that she would live to rule at Patterne Hall, tortured the poor girl in proportion as he seemed to derive comfort from it.  The noise of the engagement merely silenced him; recluse invalids cling obstinately to their ideas.  He had observed