e, to be led away by any temporary fancy for a
pleasant-looking piece of vulgar prettiness."

Mrs Canninge stopped, for she knew at heart without the warning of the
colour coming into her son's face, that she had gone too far; and she
felt cold and bitter as she listened to her son's next words.

"I do not consider Beatrice Lambent's features to be vulgarly pretty,"
he said.

"Oh no, of course not, George; she is very refined."

"I misunderstood you, then," said George Canninge coldly. "But let us
understand one another, my dear mother. I find you have been thinking
it probable that I should propose to Beatrice Lambent."

"Yes, dear; and I am sure that she would accept you."

"I daresay she would," he replied coldly; "but such an event is not
likely to be brought about for Beatrice Lambent is not the style of
woman I should choose for my wife."

He rose and quitted the room, leaving Mrs Canninge standing by the
window, looking proud and angry, with her eyes fixed upon the door.

"I knew it," she cried; "I knew it. But you shall not trifle with me,
George. I am neither old nor helpless yet."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TOUCHED.

George Canninge went straight into his study and threw himself into a
chair, to lie back, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed upon one
particular spot in the pattern of the paper of the room.

Then he began to think hard, and his thoughts were like one of those
glorious pieces of music, in which a great composer takes some lovely,
heart-stirring melody as his theme, and then weaves it in and out
through the whole composition; the ear is attracted to other beauties,
and fresh subjects are constantly being evoked, but the artist never
forgets the sweet enthralling air which is ever-recurring, and seems to
give character to the whole.

Always the same; think how he would of other matters, there was Hazel
Thorne's sweet face, and her soft eyes looking up at him at every turn.

"Am I in love?" he said at last, asking himself the question in a calm,
matter-of-fact way. "This seems very absurd, and if any one had told me
that I should be thinking of nothing but a little schoolmistress day and
night, I should have asked him if he took me for a fool.

"Fool! Am I a fool? Let's argue it out. Hazel Thorne. Hazel, what a
peculiar name!--well. Hazel Thorne is a schoolmistress, and if I asked
her to be my wife, always supposing that she would accept me, the people
would say that I was m