She had built herself a castle of hopes, and it had not been a castle in Spain, but a structure well on the probable side of the Pyrenees.  There had been a solid foundation on which to build.  Miss de Frey’s fortune was an assured and unhampered one, her liking for Comus had been an obvious fact; his courtship of her a serious reality.  The young people had been much together in public, and their names had naturally been coupled in the match-making gossip of the day.  The only serious shadow cast over the scene had been the persistent presence, in foreground or background, of Courtenay Youghal.  And now the shadow suddenly stood forth as the reality, and the castle of hopes was a ruin, a hideous mortification of dust and debris, with the skeleton outlines of its chambers still standing to make mockery of its discomfited architect.  The daily anxiety about Comus and his extravagant ways and intractable disposition had been gradually lulled by the prospect of his making an advantageous marriage, which would have transformed him from a ne’er-do-well and adventurer into a wealthy idler.  He might even have been moulded, by the resourceful influence of an ambitious wife, into a man with some definite purpose in life.  The prospect had vanished with cruel suddenness, and the anxieties were crowding back again, more insistent than ever.  The boy had had his one good chance in the matrimonial market and missed it; if he were to transfer his attentions to some other well-dowered girl he would be marked down at once as a fortune-hunter, and that would constitute a heavy handicap to the most plausible of wooers.  His liking for Elaine had evidently been genuine in its way, though perhaps it would have been rash to read any deeper sentiment into it, but even with the spur of his own inclination to assist him he had failed to win the prize that had seemed so temptingly within his reach.  And in the dashing of his prospects, Francesca saw the threatening of her own.  The old anxiety as to her precarious tenure of her present quarters put on again all its familiar terrors.  One day, she foresaw, in the horribly near future, George St. Michael would come pattering up her stairs with the breathless intelligence that Emmeline Chetrof was going to marry somebody or other in the Guards or the Record Office as the case might be, and then there would be an uprooting of her life from its home and haven in Blue Street and a wandering forth to some cheap unhappy far-off dwelling, where the stately Van der Meulen and its companion host of beautiful and desirable things would be stuffed and stowed away in soulless surroundings, like courtly emigres fallen on evil days.  It was unthinkable, but the trouble was that it had to be thought about.  And if Comus had played his cards well and transformed himself from an encumbrance into a son with wealth at his command, the tragedy which she saw looming in front of her might have been avoided or at the worst whittled down to easily bearable