’You are excused by me for all your errors, Caseldy.  Always remember that.’

He sighed profoundly.  ‘Ay, you have a Christian’s heart.’

She answered, ‘I have come to the conclusion that it is a Pagan’s.’

‘As for me,’ he rejoined, ’I am a fatalist.  Through life I have seen my destiny.  What is to be, will be; we can do nothing.’

’I have heard of one who expired of a surfeit that he anticipated, nay proclaimed, when indulging in the last desired morsel,’ said Chloe.

‘He was driven to it.’

‘From within.’

Caseldy acquiesced; his wits were clouded, and an illustration even coarser and more grotesque would have won a serious nod and a sigh from him.  ‘Yes, we are moved by other hands!’

‘It is pleasant to think so:  and think it of me tomorrow.  Will you!’ said Chloe.

He promised it heartily, to induce her to think the same of him.

Their separation was in no way remarkable.  The pretty formalities were executed at the door, and the pair of gentlemen departed.

‘It’s quite dark still,’ Duchess Susan said, looking up at the sky, and she ran upstairs, and sank, complaining of the weakness of her legs, in a chair of the ante-chamber of her bedroom, where Chloe slept.  Then she asked the time of the night.  She could not suppress her hushed ‘Oh!’ of heavy throbbing from minute to minute.  Suddenly she started off at a quick stride to her own room, saying that it must be sleepiness which affected her so.

Her bedroom had a door to the sitting-room, and thence, as also from Chloe’s room, the landing on the stairs was reached, for the room ran parallel with both bed-chambers.  She walked in it and threw the window open, but closed it immediately; opened and shut the door, and returned and called for Chloe.  She wanted to be read to.  Chloe named certain composing books.  The duchess chose a book of sermons.  ’But we’re all such dreadful sinners, it’s better not to bother ourselves late at night.’  She dismissed that suggestion.  Chloe proposed books of poetry.  ’Only I don’t understand them except about larks, and buttercups, and hayfields, and that’s no comfort to a woman burning,’ was the answer.

‘Are you feverish, madam?’ said Chloe.  And the duchess was sharp on her:  ‘Yes, madam, I am.’

She reproved herself in a change of tone:  ’No, Chloe, not feverish, only this air of yours here is such an exciting air, as the doctor says; and they made me drink wine, and I played before supper—­Oh! my money; I used to say I could get more, but now!’ she sighed—­’but there’s better in the world than money.  You know that, don’t you, you dear?  Tell me.  And I want you to be happy; that you’ll find.  I do wish we could all be!’ She wept, and spoke of requiring a little music to compose her.