to pull at the collar, is a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Guards, a thorough gentleman—­of the brainless class, if you like, but an elegant fellow; an Irishman; you will see him, and I should like to set a naval lieutenant beside him in a drawingroom, for you to compare them and consider the model you would choose for a boy you are interested in.  Horace is grace and gallantry incarnate; fatuous, probably:  I have always been too friendly with him to examine closely.  He made himself one of my dogs, though my elder, and seemed to like to be at my heels.  One of the few men’s faces I can call admirably handsome;—­with nothing behind it, perhaps.  As Vernon says, ’a nothing picked by the vultures and bleached by the desert’.  Not a bad talker, if you are satisfied with keeping up the ball.  He will amuse you.  Old Horace does not know how amusing he is!”

“Did Mr. Whitford say that of Colonel De Craye?”

“I forget the person of whom he said it.  So you have noticed old Vernon’s foible?  Quote him one of his epigrams, and he is in motion head and heels!  It is an infallible receipt for tuning him.  If I want to have him in good temper, I have only to remark, ‘as you said’.  I straighten his back instantly.”

“I,” said Clara, “have noticed chiefly his anxiety concerning the boy; for which I admire him.”

“Creditable, if not particularly far-sighted and sagacious.  Well, then, my dear, attack him at once; lead him to the subject of our fair neighbour.  She is to be our guest for a week or so, and the whole affair might be concluded far enough to fix him before she leaves.  She is at present awaiting the arrival of a cousin to attend on her father.  A little gentle pushing will precipitate old Vernon on his knees as far as he ever can unbend them; but when a lady is made ready to expect a declaration, you know, why, she does not—­does she?—­demand the entire formula?—­though some beautiful fortresses . . .”

He enfolded her.  Clara was growing hardened to it.  To this she was fated; and not seeing any way to escape, she invoked a friendly frost to strike her blood, and passed through the minute unfeelingly.  Having passed it, she reproached herself for making so much of it, thinking it a lesser endurance than to listen to him.  What could she do?—­she was caged; by her word of honour, as she at one time thought; by her cowardice, at another; and dimly sensible that the latter was a stronger lock than the former, she mused on the abstract question whether a woman’s cowardice can be so absolute as to cast her into the jaws of her aversion.  Is it to be conceived?  Is there not a moment when it stands at bay?  But haggard-visaged Honour then starts up claiming to be dealt with in turn; for having courage restored to her, she must have the courage to break with honour, she must dare to be faithless, and not merely say, I will be brave, but be brave enough to be dishonourable.  The cage of a plighted woman hungering for her disengagement has two keepers, a noble and a vile; where on earth is creature so dreadfully enclosed?  It lies with her to overcome what degrades her, that she may win to liberty by overcoming what exalts.