Meadows was now living in Isaac Levi’s old house.  He had examined it, found it a much nicer house for him than his new one—­it was like himself, full of ins and outs, and it was more in the heart of business and yet quiet; for, though it stood in a row, yet it was as good as detached, because the houses on each side were unoccupied.  They belonged to Jews, probably dependents on Isaac, for they had left the town about a twelvemonth after his departure and had never returned, though a large quantity of goods had been deposited in one of the houses.

Meadows contrived that this little party should lead to another.  His game was to draw Susan into the world, and moreover have her seen in his company.  She made no resistance, for her wounded pride said, “Don’t let people know you are breaking your heart for one who does not care for you.”  She used to come to these parties radiant and playing her part with consummate resolution and success, and go home and spend the night in tears.

Meadows did not see the tears that followed these unusual efforts—­perhaps he suspected them.  Enough for him that Susan’s pride and shame and indignation were set against her love, and, above all, against her grief, and that she was forming habits whose tendency at least was favorable to his views.

Another four months, and Susan, exhausted by conflicting passions, had settled down into a pensive languor, broken by gusts of bitter grief, which became rarer and rarer.  Her health recovered itself, all but its elasticity.  Her pride would not let her pine away.  But her heart scarcely beat at all, and perhaps it was a good thing for her that a trouble of another kind came to gently stir it.  Her father, who had for some months been moody and depressed, confessed to her that he had been speculating and was on the verge of ruin.  This dreadful disclosure gave little more pain to Susan than if he had told her his head ached; but she put down her work and came and kissed him, and tried to console him.

“I must work harder, that is all, father.  I am often asked to give a lesson on the piano-forte; I will do that for your sake, and don’t you fret for me.  What with the trifle my mother settled on me and my industry, I am above poverty, and you shall never see me repine.”

In short, poor Susan took her father for a woman—­adopted a line of consolation addressed to his affection, instead of his selfishness.  It was not for her he was afflicted, it was for himself.

It was at this conjuncture that Meadows spoke out.  There was no longer anything to be gained by delay.  In fact, he could not but observe that since the fatal letter he appeared to be rather losing ground in his old character.  There was nothing left him but to attack her in a new one.  He removed the barrier from his patient impatience.