th every detail He could trust
himself now; his self-possession was complete, or, so far as it was
wanting, the fault was that of a sudden gayety which he could not, on
the spot, have accounted for. Of course it was not very flattering to
them--Mrs. Percivals own people--that poor Dora's husband should have
consoled himself; but men always did it (talk of widows!) and he
had chosen a girl who was--well, very fine-looking, and the sort of
successor to Dora that they needn't be ashamed of. She had been awfully
admired, and no one had understood why she had waited so long to marry.
She had had some affair as a girl,--an engagement to an officer in the
army,--and the man had jilted her, or they had quarrelled, or something
or other. She was almost an old maid,--well, she was thirty, or very
nearly,--but she had done something good now. She was handsomer than
ever, and tremendously stylish. William Roy had one of the biggest
incomes in the city, and he was quite affectionate. He had been
intensely fond of Dora--he often spoke of her still, at least to her
own relations; and her portrait, the last time Mrs. Percival was in his
house (it was at a party, after his marriage to Miss Gressie), was still
in the front parlor.. Perhaps by this time he had had it moved to the
back; but she was sure he would keep it somewhere, anyway. Poor Dora
had had no children; but Georgina was making that all right,--she had
a beautiful boy. Mrs. Percival had what she would have called quite a
pleasant chat with Captain Benyon about Mrs. Roy. Perhaps _he_ was the
officer--she never thought of that? He was sure he had never jilted her?
And he had never quarrelled with a lady? Well, he must be different from
most men.

He certainly had the air of being so, before he parted that afternoon
with Kate Theory. This young lady, at least, was free to think him
wanting in that consistency which is supposed to be a distinctively
masculine virtue. An hour before, he had taken an eternal farewell
of her, and now he was alluding to future meetings, to future visits,
proposing that, with her sister-in-law, she should appoint an early day
for coming to see the "Louisiana." She had supposed she understood him,
but it would appear now that she had not understood him at all. His
manner had changed, too. More and more off his guard, Raymond Benyon
was not aware how much more hopeful an expression it gave him, his
irresistible sense that somehow or other this extraord