Richard shook his hand, and Ripton’s.  Then Lady Blandish said her good-night, praising Lucy, and promising to pray for their mutual happiness.  The two men who knew what was hanging over him, spoke together outside.  Ripton was for getting a positive assurance that the duel would not be fought, but Adrian said:  “Time enough tomorrow.  He’s safe enough while he’s here.  I’ll stop it to-morrow:”  ending with banter of Ripton and allusions to his adventures with Miss Random, which must, Adrian said, have led him into many affairs of the sort.  Certainly Richard was there, and while he was there he must be safe.  So thought Ripton, and went to his bed.  Mrs. Doria deliberated likewise, and likewise thought him safe while he was there.  For once in her life she thought it better not to trust to her instinct, for fear of useless disturbance where peace should be.  So she said not a syllable of it to her brother.  She only looked more deeply into Richard’s eyes, as she kissed him, praising Lucy.  “I have found a second daughter in her, dear.  Oh! may you both be happy!”

They all praised Lucy, now.  His father commenced the moment they were alone.  “Poor Helen!  Your wife has been a great comfort to her, Richard.  I think Helen must have sunk without her.  So lovely a young person, possessing mental faculty, and a conscience for her duties, I have never before met.”

He wished to gratify his son by these eulogies of Lucy, and some hours back he would have succeeded.  Now it had the contrary effect.

“You compliment me on my choice, sir?”

Richard spoke sedately, but the irony was perceptible and he could speak no other way, his bitterness was so intense.

“I think you very fortunate,” said his father.

Sensitive to tone and manner as he was, his ebullition of paternal feeling was frozen.  Richard did not approach him.  He leaned against the chimney-piece, glancing at the floor, and lifting his eyes only when he spoke.  Fortunate! very fortunate!  As he revolved his later history, and remembered how clearly he had seen that his father must love Lucy if he but knew her, and remembered his efforts to persuade her to come with him, a sting of miserable rage blackened his brain.  But could he blame that gentle soul?  Whom could he blame?  Himself?  Not utterly.  His father?  Yes, and no.  The blame was here, the blame was there:  it was everywhere and nowhere, and the young man cast it on the Fates, and looked angrily at heaven, and grew reckless.

“Richard,” said his father, coming close to him, “it is late to-night.  I do not wish Lucy to remain in expectation longer, or I should have explained myself to you thoroughly, and I think—­or at least hope—­you would have justified me.  I had cause to believe that you had not only violated my confidence, but grossly deceived me.  It was not so, I now know.  I was mistaken.  Much of our misunderstanding has resulted from that