Lady Mabel Grex,--with
of course Miss Cassewary. The Duke had especially asked both Mrs.
Finn and Lady Mabel to remain, the former, through his anxiety to
show his repentance for the injustice he had formerly done her, and
the latter in the hope that something might be settled as soon as
the crowd of visitors should have gone. He had never spoken quite
distinctly to Mabel. He had felt that the manner in which he had
learned his son's purpose,--that which once had been his son's
purpose,--forbade him to do so. But he had so spoken as to make Lady
Mabel quite aware of his wish. He would not have told her how sure he
was that Silverbridge would keep no more racehorses, how he trusted
that Silverbridge had done with betting, how he believed that the
young member would take a real interest in the House of Commons, had
he not intended that she should take a special interest in the young
man. And then he had spoken about the house in London. It was to
be made over to Silverbridge as soon as Silverbridge should marry.
And there was Gatherum Castle. Gatherum was rather a trouble than
otherwise. He had ever felt it to be so, but had nevertheless always
kept it open perhaps for a month in the year. His uncle had always
resided there for a fortnight at Christmas. When Silverbridge was
married it would become the young man's duty to do something of
the same kind. Gatherum was the White Elephant of the family, and
Silverbridge must enter in upon his share of the trouble. He did not
know that in saying all this he was offering his son as a husband
to Lady Mabel, but she understood it as thoroughly as though he had
spoken the words.

But she knew the son's mind also. He had indeed himself told her all
his mind. "Of course I love her best of all," he had said. When he
told her of it she had been so overcome that she had wept in her
despair;--had wept in his presence. She had declared to him her
secret,--that it had been her intention to become his wife, and
then he had rejected her! It had all been shame, and sorrow, and
disappointment to her. And she could not but remember that there had
been a moment when she might have secured him by a word. A look would
have done it; a touch of her finger on that morning. She had known
then that he had intended to be in earnest,--that he only waited for
encouragement. She had not given it because she had not wished to
grasp too eagerly at the prize,--and now the prize was gone! She had
said that s