Merthyr took her wrist, feeling the quick pulse, and dropped it.  She was effectually humbled by this direct method of dealing with her secret heart.  After some commonplace remarks had passed, she herself urged him to send out men in search for Emilia.  Before he went, she murmured a soft “Forgive me.”  The pressure of her fingers was replied to, but the words were not spoken.

“There,” she cried to Georgiana, “I have offended the only man for whose esteem I care one particle!  Devote yourself to your friends!”

“How? ‘devote yourself!’” murmured Georgiana, astonished.

“Do you think I should have got into this hobble if I hadn’t wished to serve some one else?  You must have seen that Merthyr has a sentimental sort of fondness—­call it passion—­for this girl.  She’s his Italy in the flesh.  Is there a more civilized man in the world than Merthyr?  So he becomes fascinated by a savage.  We all play the game of opposites—­or like to, and no woman in his class will ever catch him.  I couldn’t have believed that he was touched by a girl, but for two or three recent indications.  You must have noticed that he has given up reading others, and he objected the other day to a responsible office which would have thrown him into her neighbourhood alone.  These are unmistakeable signs in Merthyr, though he has never been in love, and doesn’t understand his case a bit.  Tell me, do you think it impossible?”

Georgiana answered dryly, “You have fallen into a fresh mistake.”

Exactly.  Then let me rescue you from a similar fatality, Georgey.  If your eyes are bandaged now...”

“Are you going to be devoted to me also, Charlotte?”

“I believe I’m a miracle of devotion,” said the lady, retiring into indifferent topics upon that phrase.  She had at any rate partially covered the figure of ridicule presented to her feminine imagination by the aspect of her fair self exposed in public contention with one of her sex—­and for a man.  It was enough to make her pulse and her brain lively.  On second thoughts, too, it had struck her that she might be serving Merthyr in disengaging Emilia; and undoubtedly she served Georgiana by giving her a warning.  Through this silliness went the current of a clear mind, nevertheless.  The lady’s heart was justified in crying out:  “What would I not abandon for my friend in his need?” Meantime her battle in her own behalf looked less pleasing by the light of new advantages.  The question recurred:  “Shall I care to win at all?” She had to force the idea of a violent love to excuse her proceedings.  To get up any flame whatsoever, an occasional blast of jealousy had to be called for.  Jealousy was a quality she could not admit as possible to her.  So she acted on herself by an agent she repudiated, and there was no help for it.  Had Wilfrid loved her the woman’s heart was ready.  It was ready with a trembling tenderness, softer and deeper than a girl’s.  For Charlotte would