iently ill-considered. Was it preferable to be a loutish
philosopher? Since the death of Ambrose Mallard, he felt Woodseer's title
for that crew grind harshly; and he tried to provoke a repetition of it,
that he might burst out in wrathful defence of his friends--to be named
friends when they were vilified: defence of poor Ambrose at least, the
sinner who, or one as bad, might have reached to pardon through the
priesthood.

Gower offered him no chance..

Entering Esslemont air, Fleetwood tossed his black mood to the winds. She
breathed it. She was a mountain girl, and found it hard to forgive our
lowlands. She would learn tolerance, taking her flights at seasons. The
yacht, if she is anything of a sailor, may give her a taste of England's
pleasures. She will have a special allowance for distribution among old
Mr. Woodseer's people. As to the rest of the Countess of Fleetwood's
wishes, her family ranks with her husband's in claims of any kind on him.
There would be--she would require and had a right to demand--say, a warm
half-hour of explanations: he knew the tone for them, and so little did
he revolve it apprehensively, that his mind sprang beyond, to the hearing
from her mouth of her not intending further to 'guard her rooms.' How
quietly the words were spoken! There was a charm in the retrospect of her
mouth and manner. One of the rare women who never pout or attitudinize,
she could fling her glove gracefully--one might add, capturingly under
every aspect, she was a handsome belligerent. The words he had to combat
pleased his memory. Some good friend, Lady Arpington probably, had
instructed her in the art of dressing to match her colour.

Concerning himself, he made no stipulation, but he reflected on Lord
Feltre's likely estimate of her as a bit of a heathen. And it might be to
her advantage, were she and Feltre to have some conversations. Whatever
the faith, a faith should exist, for without the sentiment of religion, a
woman, he says, is where she was when she left the gates of Eden. A man
is not much farther. Feltre might have saved Ambrose Mallard. He is,
however, right in saying, that the woman with the sentiment of religion
in her bosom is a box of holy incense distinguishing her from all other
women. Empty of it, she is devil's bait. At best, she is a creature who
cannot overlook an injury, or must be exacting God knows what
humiliations before she signs the treaty.

Informed at the house that her ladyship