When a man and a woman do any thing wrong, it is amusing to hear the judgments of other men and women thereupon.  The men all blame the man, and the women all the woman.  That is judgment, is it not?

But in some cases our pitch-farthing judgments must be either heads or tails; so Mr. Raby, who had cried heads, when a Mrs. Raby would have cried “woman,” was right; it was Mr. Coventry, and not Miss Carden, who leaned over to George, and whispered, “A sovereign, to drive on without her!  Make some excuse.”

The cunning Yorkshire groom’s eye twinkled at this, and he remained passive a minute or two:  then, said suddenly, with well-acted fervor, “I can’t keep the pony waiting in the cold, like this;” applied the whip, and rattled off with such decision, that Grace did not like to interfere, especially as George was known to be one of those hard masters, an old servant.

So, by this little ruse, Mr. Coventry had got her all to himself for the afternoon.  And now she felt sure he would propose that very day.

She made no movement whatever either to advance or to avoid the declaration.

It is five miles from Raby Hall, through Cairnhope village, to the eastern foot of Cairnhope; and while George rattles them over the hard and frosty road, I will tell the reader something about this young gentleman, who holds the winning cards.

Mr. Frederick Coventry was a man of the world.  He began life with a good estate, and a large fund accumulated during his minority.

He spent all the money in learning the world at home and abroad; and, when it was all gone, he opened one eye.

But, as a man cannot see very clear with a single orb, he exchanged rouge-et-noir, etc., for the share-market, and, in other respects, lived as fast as ever, till he had mortgaged his estate rather heavily.  Then he began to open both eyes.

Next, he fell in love with Grace Carden; and upon that he opened both eyes very wide, and wished very much he had his time to live over again.

Nevertheless, he was not much to be pitied.  He had still an estate which, with due care, could pay off its incumbrances; and he had gathered some valuable knowledge.  He knew women better than most men, and he knew whist profoundly.  Above all, he had acquired what Voltaire justly calls “le grand art de plaire;” he had studied this art, as many women study it, and few men.  Why, he even watched the countenance, and smoothed the rising bristles of those he wished to please, or did not wish to displease.  This was the easier to him that he had no strong convictions on any great topic.  It is your plaguy convictions that make men stubborn and disagreeable.

A character of this kind is very susceptible, either of good or evil influences; and his attachment to Grace Carden was turning him the right way.

Add to this a good figure and a distinguished air, and you have some superficial idea of the gentleman toward whom Grace Carden found herself drawn by circumstances, and not unwillingly, though not with that sacred joy and thrill which marks a genuine passion.