he road to
disaster?"

"No. One may easily be a long way from happiness and still be nowhere
near disaster," he said, checking a deep sigh. "Of course, if he feels
that he cannot in honour remain in his present situation, he must act at
once. Men who are desirous to satisfy all their friends soon become
irresolute on every occasion. That is all I shall say upon the subject,
and this, perhaps, may be saying more than I ought."

"Another reproof! So be it. But I am thinking of his contentment, and
you are thinking of his duty. What is duty? It generally means that
which your acquaintances--for no reason and without warrant--expect of
you. I take a larger view."

"People of Beauclerk's stamp are so constituted that they can rarely
find contentment by defying a general opinion."

"But Agnes is not a pretty, crying, fluttering creature who would excite
compassion. Who, for instance, could jilt Pensee? I don't wish Beauclerk
to jilt anybody, however. I want Agnes to take the step."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because he will break his heart and die--if she doesn't. There!"

"Then it will be your fault."

"Mr. Orange!"

"You know it, and I mean it."

She smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do you think I would ever take the commonplace course?" she said
proudly. "I did hope that you could appreciate motives for which the
world at large is slow enough to give credit. Beauclerk is weak,
attractive, and in perplexity; I search my heart again and again, and I
find nothing but friendship there--for him. I am careful of every word I
speak, and every look, and every thought. My interest is unselfish.
But," she added, "what can any of us do, after all, toward raising
either dead bodies or dead souls?"

"Dead souls?"

"Yes. Beauclerk might have been something once; he is still very clever;
he will soon be a man for occasional addresses. I believe in him, you
see."

"I know that."

She was smiling, yet almost in tears, and her voice trembled. He wished
to speak, if only to break the sudden, oppressive silence which followed
her last words; but neither of them could find a thought to offer. They
sat facing each other, lost in following out unutterable conjectures,
fancies, and doubts, each painfully aware of a certain mystery, each
filled with a sure premonition of troubles to come.

"I could almost pray," she exclaimed at last, "that you didn't trust
him. Because--in spite of himself--he must disappoint every one.