fe, and is not in the same set as herself, is the
easiest thing in the world.

So Mrs. Miller found it. She kept Beatrice hard at work at the routine of
dissipation. Not an hour of her time was unoccupied, not a minute of her
day unaccounted for; and, of course, she was never alone--it is not yet
the fashion for young girls to dance about London by themselves--her
mother, as a matter of course, was always with her.

As a natural sequence, the lovers had a hard time of it. Beatrice had
been six weeks in London, and Herbert, beyond catching sight of her once
or twice as she was driven past in her mother's carriage down Bond
Street, or through the crowd in the Park, had never seen her at all.

Mrs. Miller was congratulating herself upon the success of her tactics;
she flattered herself that her daughter was completely getting over that
unlucky fancy for the penniless and briefless barrister. Beatrice gave no
sign; she appeared perfectly satisfied and contented, and seemed to be
enjoying herself thoroughly, and to be troubled by no love-sick
hankerings after her absent swain.

"She has forgotten him," said Mrs. Miller, to herself.

But the mother did not take into account that indomitable spirit and
stubborn determination in her own character which had served to carry out
successfully all the schemes of her life, and which she had probably
transmitted to her child.

In Beatrice's head, under its short thick thatch of dark rough hair, and
in her sturdily-built little frame, there lurked the tenacity of a
bulldog. Once she had taken an idea firmly into her mind, Beatrice Miller
would never relinquish it until she had got her own way. Herbert, in
the dingy solitude of his untempting chambers, might despair and look
upon life and its aims as a hopeless enigma. Beatrice did not despair at
all. She only bided her time.

One day, if she waited for it patiently, the opportunity would come to
her, and when it came she would not be slow to make use of it. It came to
her in the shape of a morning visit from Captain Maurice Kynaston.

"Come down and see my mother," Maurice had said to her; "she has not seen
you for a long while. I am just going back to Walpole Lodge to lunch."

"I should like to come very much. You have no objection, I suppose,
mamma?"

No; Mrs. Miller could have no possible objection. Lady Kynaston was
amongst her oldest and most respected friends; under whose house could
Beatrice be safer? And even Maurice