Grace was at home to see her, and met her with a blushing timidity, and piteous, wistful looks, not easy to misunderstand nor to resist.

They soon came to an understanding, and Mrs. Little told Grace what Dr. Amboyne had promised to do, and represented to her how much better it would be for Henry to fall into his uncle Raby’s views, than to engage in hopeless struggles like that in which Mr. Bolt and he had just been so signally defeated.  “And then, you know, my dear, you could marry next month—­you two; that is to say, if you felt disposed:  I will answer for Henry.”

Grace’s red face and swimming eyes told how this shaft went home.  In short, she made a coy promise that she would co-operate with Mrs. Little “and,” said she, “how lucky! he has almost promised to grant me the first favor I ask him.  Well, I shall entreat him to be a good nephew, and do whatever dear Mr. Raby asks him.  But of course I shall not say, and then if you do, you and I”—­here the young lady cut her sentence very short.

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Little.  “That will follow as a matter of course.  Now, my dear, you and I are conspirators—­for his good:  and we must write often and let each other know all we do.”

With this understanding, and a good many pretty speeches and kisses, they parted.

Dr. Amboyne did not recover so quickly as they could have wished; but they employed the interval.  Feelers were adroitly applied to Henry by both ladies, and they were pleased to find that he rather admired his wrong-headed uncle, and had been deeply touched by the old gentleman’s address to his mother’s picture.

Bolt never came near him, and the grass was beginning to grow on the condemned bricks.  In short, every thing seemed to incline in one direction.

There was, however, something very serious going on out of their sight.

“Not at home!” That white lie made Mr. Coventry feel sick at heart.  He went home disconsolate.  The same evening he received Miss Carden’s letter.

The writer treated him like a gentleman, said a few words about her own peculiar position, and begged him to consider that position, and to be very generous; to cease his visits entirely for the present, and so give himself one more title to her esteem, which was all she had to give him.  This was the purport, and the manner was simply perfect, so gentle yet firm; and then she flattered his amour propre by asking that from his generosity which she could have taken as a right:  she did all she could to soften the blow.  But she failed.  The letter was posted too soon after Henry’s visit.  Behind the velvet paw that struck him, Coventry saw the claws of the jealous lover.  He boiled with rage and agony, and cursed them both in his fury.

After an hour or two of frenzy, he sat down and wrote back a letter full of bitter reproaches and sneers.  He reflected.  He lighted a cigar and smoked it, biting it almost through, now and then.  He burned his letter.  He lay awake all night, raging and reflecting alternately, as passion or judgment got the upper hand.