But were there not other considerations?  Could it be well that the heir of the House of Omnium should marry an American girl, as to whose humble birth whispers were already afloat?  As his friend, would it not be right that she should tell him what the world would say? as his friend, therefore, she had given him her counsel.

When he was gone the whole thing weighed heavily on her mind.  Why should she lose the prize if it might still be her own?  To be Duchess of Omnium!  She had read of many of the other sex and of one or two of her own who by settled resolution had achieved greatness in opposition to all obstacles.  Was this thing beyond her reach?  To hunt him and catch him, and marry him to his own injury,—­that would be impossible to her.  She was sure of herself there.  But how infinitely better would this be for him!  Would she not have all his family with her,—­and all the world of England?  In how short a time would he not repent his marriage with Miss Boncassen?  Whereas, were she his wife, she would stir herself for his joys, for his good, for his honour, that there should be no possibility of repentance.  And he certainly had loved her.  Why else had he followed her, and spoken such words to her?  Of course he had loved her!  But then there had come this blaze of beauty and had carried off,—­not his heart, but his imagination.  Because he had yielded to such fascination, was she to desert him, and also to desert herself?  From day to day she thought of it, and then she wrote that letter.  She hardly knew what she would do, what she might say; but she would trust to the opportunity to do and say something.

‘If you have no room for me,’ he said to Mrs Jones, ’you must scold Lady Mab.  She has told me that you told her to invite me.’

’Of course I did.  Do you think I would not sleep in the stables, and give you up my own bed if there were no other?  It is so good of you to come!’

‘So good of you, Mrs Jones, to ask me.’

‘So very kind to come when all the attraction has gone!’ Then he blushed and stammered, and was just able to say that his only object in life was to pour out his adoration at the feet of Mrs Montacute Jones herself.

There was a certain Lady Fawn,—­a pretty mincing married woman of about twenty-five, with a husband much older, who liked mild flirtations with mild young men.  ’I am afraid we’ve lost your great attraction,’ she whispered to him.

‘Certainly not as long as Lady Fawn is here,’ he said, seating himself close to her on a garden bench, and seizing suddenly hold of her hand.  She gave a little scream and a jerk, and so relieved herself from him.  ‘You see,’ said he, ’people do make such mistakes about a man’s feelings.’

‘Lord Silverbridge!’

‘It’s quite true, but I’ll tell you about it another time,’ and so he left her.  All these little troubles, his experience in the ‘House’, the necessity of snubbing Tifto, the choice of a wife, and his battle with Reginald Dobbes, were giving him by degrees age and flavour.