ommencement of the season the girls are brought up to London, to be
tricked out, regardless of expense, by the fashionable dressmakers of
the day. They are paraded here, there, and everywhere, like horses in
a dealer's yard; are warned off the men who have no money, but who
might very possibly make them happy; while they are ordered by the
'home authorities' to encourage those who have substantial bank
balances and nothing else to recommend them. As the question of love
makes no sort of difference, it receives no consideration. After their
friends have sent them expensive presents, which in most cases they
cannot afford to give, but do so in order that they may keep up
appearances with their neighbours and tradesmen, the happy couple stand
side by side before the altar at St. George's and take the most solemn
oath of their lives; that done, they spend their honeymoon in Egypt,
Switzerland, or the Riviera, where they are presented with ample
opportunity of growing tired of one another. Returning to town, the
man usually goes back to his old life and the woman to hers. The
result is a period of mutual distrust and deceit; an awakening follows,
and later on we have the _cause celebre_, and, holding up our hands in
horror, say, 'Dear me, how very shocking!' In the face of all this, we
have the audacity to curl our lips and to call the French system
unnatural!"

"I am afraid, dear Browne, you are not quite yourself to-night," said
Maas, with a gentle little laugh, at the end of the other's harangue.
"The mistake of believing that a marriage, with money on the side of
the man and beauty on that of the woman, must irretrievably result in
misfortune is a very common one. For my part, I am singular enough to
believe it may turn out as well if not better than any other."

"I wasn't aware that optimism was your strong point," retorted Browne.
"For my part I feel, after the quiet of this fjord, as if I could turn
my back on London and never go near it again."

He spoke with such earnestness that Maas, for once in his life, was
almost astonished. He watched his companion as he lit another cigar.

"One thing is quite certain," he said at length, "your walk this
afternoon did you more harm than good. The fog must have got into your
blood. And yet, if you will not think me impertinent for saying so,
Miss Verney gave you a welcome such as many men would go through fire
and water to receive."

Browne grunted scornfully. H