to service, not to grief:
she did her work for three-and-twenty hours, and fell to her sleep of
one hour like a soldier. Lord Romfrey could not recollect anything in a
young woman that had taken him so much as the girl's tossing out of the
rug and covering herself, lying down and going to sleep under his nose,
absolutely independent of his presence.

She had not betrayed any woman's petulance with him for his conduct to
her uncle or guardian. Nor had she hypocritically affected the reverse,
as ductile women do, when they feel wanting in force to do the other.
She was not unlike Nevil's marquise in face, he thought: less foreign of
course; looking thrice as firm. Both were delicately featured.

He had a dream.

It was of an interminable procession of that odd lot called the
People. All of them were quarrelling under a deluge. One party was
for umbrellas, one was against them: and sounding the dispute with a
question or two, Everard held it logical that there should be protection
from the wet: just as logical on the other hand that so frail a shelter
should be discarded, considering the tremendous downpour. But as
he himself was dry, save for two or three drops, he deemed them all
lunatics. He requested them to gag their empty chatter-boxes, and put
the mother upon that child's cry.

He was now a simple unit of the procession. Asking naturally whither
they were going, he saw them point. 'St. Paul's,' he heard. In his own
bosom it was, and striking like the cathedral big bell.

Several ladies addressed him sorrowfully. He stood alone. It had become
notorious that he was to do battle, and no one thought well of his
chances. Devil an enemy to be seen! he muttered. Yet they said the enemy
was close upon him. His right arm was paralyzed. There was the enemy
hard in front, mailed, vizored, gauntleted. He tried to lift his right
hand, and found it grasping an iron ring at the bottom of the deep
Steynham well, sunk one hundred feet through the chalk. But the
unexampled cunning of his left arm was his little secret; and, acting
upon this knowledge, he telegraphed to his first wife at Steynham that
Dr. Gannet was of good hope, and thereupon he re-entered the ranks of
the voluminous procession, already winding spirally round the dome of
St. Paul's. And there, said he, is the tomb of Beauchamp. Everything
occurred according to his predictions, and he was entirely devoid of
astonishment. Yet he would fain have known the titles of