r wife. But perhaps you
have already."

"Who; I?"

"Yes; you."

"I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs. Broughton."

"And why should you not do it?"

"There are two or three reasons;--but perhaps none of any great
importance. Do you know of none, Mrs. Broughton?"

"I know of none," said Mrs. Broughton in a very serious,--in almost a
tragic tone;--"of none that should weigh for a moment. As far as I am
concerned, nothing would give me more pleasure."

"That is so kind of you!"

"I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be better
for you that you should be settled,--very much better. And it will be
better for me. I do not mind admitting that;--though in saying so I
trust greatly to your generosity to interpret my words properly."

"I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that."

"There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply of
truth and prudence. Do you not know that it would be better that you
should be married?"

"Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first," said Conway
Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of his painting paraphernalia in
the recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs. Broughton.

"Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, wicked way!"

"I can assure that I do not wish the gentleman in question the
slightest harm in the world. If his welfare depended on me, he should
be as safe as the Bank of England."

"And you will not take my advice?"

"What advice?"

"About Clara?"

"Mrs. Broughton, matrimony is a very important thing."

"Indeed, it is;--oh, who can say how important! There was a time,
Conway, when I thought you had given your heart to Madalina
Demolines."

"Heaven forbid!"

"And I grieved, because I thought that she was not worthy of you."

"There was never anything in that, Mrs. Broughton."

"She thought that there was. At any rate, she said so. I know that
for certain. She told me so herself. But let that pass. Clara Van
Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, I
think, is worthy of you. And Conway,--of course it is not for me
to dictate to you; but this I must tell you--" Then she paused, as
though she did not know how to finish her sentence.

"What must you tell me?"

"I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I have
said, you must be more dull of comprehension than I believe you to
be. Now go. Why are you not gone this half-hour?"

"How could I go while you were giving me al