ject was well in hand, Adelaide wanted no more
prompting. 'You won't tell anybody if I show you something?' she said,
with eager mystery.

'O no, nobody. But does he live in this parish?'

'No.'

Nothing proved yet.

'What's his name?' said Cytherea flatly. Her breath and heart had begun
their old tricks, and came and went hotly. Miss Hinton could not see her
face.

'What do you think?' said Miss Hinton.

'George?' said Cytherea, with deceitful agony.

'No,' said Adelaide. 'But now, you shall see him first; come here;'
and she led the way upstairs into her bedroom. There, standing on the
dressing table in a little frame, was the unconscious portrait of Edward
Springrove.

'There he is,' Miss Hinton said, and a silence ensued.

'Are you very fond of him?' continued the miserable Cytherea at length.

'Yes, of course I am,' her companion replied, but in the tone of one who
'lived in Abraham's bosom all the year,' and was therefore untouched by
solemn thought at the fact. 'He's my cousin--a native of this village.
We were engaged before my father's death left me so lonely. I was only
twenty, and a much greater belle than I am now. We know each other
thoroughly, as you may imagine. I give him a little sermonizing now and
then.'

'Why?'

'O, it's only in fun. He's very naughty sometimes--not really, you
know--but he will look at any pretty face when he sees it.'

Storing up this statement of his susceptibility as another item to
be miserable upon when she had time, 'How do you know that?' Cytherea
asked, with a swelling heart.

'Well, you know how things do come to women's ears. He used to live at
Budmouth as an assistant-architect, and I found out that a young giddy
thing of a girl who lives there somewhere took his fancy for a day
or two. But I don't feel jealous at all--our engagement is so
matter-of-fact that neither of us can be jealous. And it was a mere
flirtation--she was too silly for him. He's fond of rowing, and kindly
gave her an airing for an evening or two. I'll warrant they talked the
most unmitigated rubbish under the sun--all shallowness and pastime,
just as everything is at watering places--neither of them caring a bit
for the other--she giggling like a goose all the time--'

Concentrated essence of woman pervaded the room rather than air.
'She _didn't_! and it _wasn't_ shallowness!' Cytherea burst out, with
brimming eyes. ''Twas deep deceit on one side, and entire confidence
on the othe