's example, and break plighted vows. Betrothal,
in the eyes of so exalted a moralist as Lady Mabel, was a tie but one
degree less sacred than marriage.

"Why did you not go to see the ruins?" she asked, resuming her society
tone.

"Because I was in a humour in which ruins would have been unutterably
odious. Indeed, Lady Mabel, I am just now very much of Macbeth's
temper, when he began to be a-weary of the sun."

"Has the result of the session disappointed you?"

"Naturally. When was that ever otherwise? Parliament opens full of
promise, like a young king who has just ascended the throne, and
everybody is to be made happy; all burdens are to be lightened, the
seeds of all good things that have been hidden deep in earth through
the slow centuries are to germinate all at once, and blossom, and bear
fruit. And the session comes to an end; and, lo! a great many good
things have been talked about, and no good thing has been done. That is
in the nature of things. No, Lady Mabel, it is not that which makes me
unhappy."

He waited for her to ask him what his trouble was, but she kept silence.

"No," he repeated, "it is not that."

Again there was no reply; and he went on awkwardly, like an actor who
has missed his cue.

"Since I have known you I have been at once too happy and too wretched.
Happy--unspeakably happy in your society; miserable in the knowledge
that I could never be more to you than an unit in the crowd."

"You were a great deal more to me than that," said Mabel softly. She
bad been on her guard against him just now, but when he thus abased
himself before her she took pity upon him, and became dangerously
amiable. "I shall never forget your kindness about those wretched
verses."

"I will not hear you speak ill of them," cried Lord Mallow indignantly.
"You have but shared the common fate of genius, in having a mind in
advance of your age."

Lady Mabel breathed a gentle sigh of resignation.

"I am not so weak as to think myself a genius," she murmured; "but I
venture to hope my poor verses will be better understood twenty years
hence than they are now."

"Undoubtedly!" cried Lord Mallow, with conviction. "Look at Wordsworth;
in his lifetime the general reading public considered him a prosy old
gentleman, who twaddled pleasantly about lakes and mountains, and
pretty little peasant girls. The world only awakened ten years ago to
the fact of his being a great poet and a sublime philosopher; and I
shoul