h in a man of Tarrant's social prejudice--so
strong that it exercised an appreciable effect upon his every-day
morals. He began to muse about Miss. Lord, and the upshot of his musing
was that, having learnt of her departure for Teignmouth, he idly betook
himself in the same direction.

But as for marriage, he would as soon have contemplated taking to wife a
barmaid. Between Miss. Lord and the young lady who dispenses refreshment
there were distinctions, doubtless, but none of the first importance.
Then arose the question, in what spirit, with what purpose, did he seek
her intimacy? The answer he simply postponed.

And postponed it very late indeed. Until the choice was no longer
between making love in idleness, and conscientiously holding aloof;
but between acting like a frank blackguard, and making the amends of an
honest man.

The girl's fault, to be sure. He had not credited himself with this
power of fascination, and certainly not with the violence of passion
which recklessly pursues indulgence. Still, the girl's fault; she had
behaved--well, as a half-educated girl of her class might be expected
to behave. Ignorance she could not plead; that were preposterous. Utter
subjugation by first love; that, perhaps; she affirmed it, and possibly
with truth; a flattering assumption, at all events. But, all said and
done, the issue had been of her own seeking. Why, then, accuse himself
of blackguardly conduct, if he had turned a deaf ear to her pleading?
Not one word of marriage had previously escaped his lips, nor anything
that could imply a promise.

Well, there was the awkward and unaccountable fact that he _felt_
himself obliged to marry her; that, when he seemed to be preparing
resistance, downright shame rendered it impossible. Her face--her
face when she looked at him and spoke! The truth was, that he had not
hesitated at all; there was but one course open to him. He gave glances
in the other direction; he wished to escape; he reviled himself for his
folly; he saw the difficulties and discontents that lay before him; but
choice he had none.

Love, in that sense of the word which Tarrant respected, could not be
said to influence him. He had uttered the word; yes, of course he had
uttered it; as a man will who is goaded by his raging blood. But he was
as far as ever from loving Nancy Lord. Her beauty, and a certain growing
charm in her companionship, had lured him on; his habitual idleness,
and the vagueness of his