Poetic justice had been dealt to Diaper the poet.  He thought of all he had sacrificed for this woman—­the comfortable quarters, the friend, the happy flights.  He could not but accuse her of unfaithfulness in leaving him in his old age.  Habit had legalized his union with her.  He wrote as pathetically of the break of habit as men feel at the death of love, and when we are old and have no fair hope tossing golden locks before us, a wound to this our second nature is quite as sad.  I know not even if it be not actually sadder.

Day by day Richard visited his mother.  Lady Blandish and Ripton alone were in the secret.  Adrian let him do as he pleased.  He thought proper to tell him that the public recognition he accorded to a particular lady was, in the present state of the world, scarcely prudent.

“’Tis a proof to me of your moral rectitude, my son, but the world will not think so.  No one character is sufficient to cover two—­in a Protestant country especially.  The divinity that doth hedge a Bishop would have no chance, in contact with your Madam Danae.  Drop the woman, my son.  Or permit me to speak what you would have her hear.”

Richard listened to him with disgust.  “Well, you’ve had my doctorial warning,” said Adrian; and plunged back into his book.

When Lady Feverel had revived to take part in the consultations Mrs. Berry perpetually opened on the subject of Richard’s matrimonial duty, another chain was cast about him.  “Do not, oh, do not offend your father!” was her one repeated supplication.  Sir Austin had grown to be a vindictive phantom in her mind.  She never wept but when she said this.

So Mrs. Berry, to whom Richard had once made mention of Lady Blandish as the only friend he had among women, bundled off in her black-satin dress to obtain an interview with her, and an ally.  After coming to an understanding on the matter of the visit, and reiterating many of her views concerning young married people, Mrs. Berry said:  “My lady, if I may speak so bold, I’d say the sin that’s bein’ done is the sin o’ the lookers-on.  And when everybody appear frightened by that young gentleman’s father, I’ll say—­hopin’ your pardon—­they no cause be frighted at all.  For though it’s nigh twenty year since I knew him, and I knew him then just sixteen months—­no more—­I’ll say his heart’s as soft as a woman’s, which I’ve cause for to know.  And that’s it.  That’s where everybody’s deceived by him, and I was.  It’s because he keeps his face, and makes ye think you’re dealin’ with a man of iron, and all the while there’s a woman underneath.  And a man that’s like a woman he’s the puzzle o’ life!  We can see through ourselves, my lady, and we can see through men, but one o’ that sort—­he’s like somethin’ out of nature.  Then I say—­hopin’ be excused—­what’s to do is for to treat him like a woman, and not for to let him have his own way—­which he don’t know himself, and is why nobody else do.  Let that sweet young