oidery flung about;
all the fire-place brass; some of those green Persian plates over the
mantelpiece; about thirteen thousand Chinese fans arranged like
fireworks on the walls; a fearful quantity of books and a low
easy-chair; red candles; and in the middle of the whole thing a nasty,
dirty, little beggar-girl to feed and pet----'

'I think, Madge,' her sister said, gravely, 'that you should not set
your heart on a town-house at all. Remember, old Mr. King is giving
his son Kingscourt at a great sacrifice. As I understand it, it will
be a long time before the family estate is what it has been; and you
would be very ungrateful if you were extravagant----'

'Oh, I don't see that,' said Madge. 'They are conferring no favour on
me. I don't see why I should economise. I am marrying for fun, not
for love.'

She blurted out this inadvertently--to Nan's amazement and horror--but
instantly retracted it, with the blood rushing to her temples.

'Of course I don't mean that, Nan--how could I have been so stupid! I
don't mean _that--exactly_. What I mean is that it doesn't seem to me
as if it was supposed to be a very fearfully romantic match, and all
that kind of thing. It's a very good arrangement; but it isn't I who
ought to be expected to make sacrifices----'

'But surely your husband's interests will be yours!' exclaimed Nan.

'Oh yes, certainly,' her sister said, somewhat indifferently. 'No
doubt that's true, in a way. Quite true, in a kind of way. Still,
there are limits; and I should not like to be buried alive for ever in
the country.'

Then she sighed.

'Poor Jack!' she said.

She went to the window.

'When I marry, I know at least one who will be sorry. I can fancy him
walking up and down there--looking at the house as he used to do; and,
oh! so grateful if only you went to the window for a moment. He will
see it in the papers, I suppose.'

She turned to her sister, and said, triumphantly--

'Well, the Vice-Chancellor was done that time!'

'What time?'

'Valentine's morning. You can send flowers without any kind of writing
to be traced. Do you think I don't know who sent me the flowers?'

'At all events, you should not be proud of it. You should be sorry.
It is a very great pity----'

'Yes, that's what I think,' said Madge. 'How can I help pitying him?
It wouldn't be natural not to pity him, Vice-chancellor or no
Vice-chancellor. I hate that man.'

'I say it is a great pity that M