was unfeignedly glad, and never thought of inquiring whether the
woman in question was rich, or well-connected, or moving in good
society. Perhaps she took the last two points for granted, and no doubt
she would have been greatly disappointed if she had found that Brooke's
choice had been otherwise than gentle and refined. But when she saw
Lettice she was satisfied, and set herself by every means in her power
to please and charm her new friend.

As Mrs. Hartley knew and backed the designs of the Daltons, Lettice was
not very fairly matched against the wiles and blandishments of the
three. Brooke Dalton, indeed, felt himself in a rather ridiculous
position, as though he were proceeding to the siege of Lettice's heart
relying upon the active co-operation of his sister and cousin, to say
nothing of her brother's letter which he carried in his pocket. But,
after all, this combination was quite fortuitous. He had not asked for
assistance, and he knew very well that if such assistance were too
openly given it would do his cause more harm than good.

Dalton was one of those good-tempered men who are apt to get too much
help in spite of themselves from the womenfolk of their family and
household, who are supposed to need help when they do not, and who have
only themselves to thank for their occasional embarrassment of wealth in
this particular form. Nature intends such men to be wife-ridden and
happy. If is not alien to their disposition that they should spend their
earlier manhood, as Dalton had done, amongst men who take life too
easily and lightly; but they generally settle down before the whole of
their manhood is wasted, and then a woman can lead them with a thread of
silk.

It was for Lettice, if she would, to lead this gentle-hearted English
squire, to be the mistress of his house and fair estate, to ensure the
happiness of this converted bachelor of Pall Mall, and to bid good-bye
to the cares and struggles of the laborious life on which she had
entered.

The temptation was put before her. Would she dally with it, and succumb
to it? And could anyone blame her if she did?

CHAPTER XXIX.

"IT WAS A LIE!"

Up the right-hand slopes of the Val d'Arno, between Florence and
Fiesole, the carriage-road runs for some distance comparatively broad
and direct between stone walls and cypress-hedges, behind which the
passer-by gets glimpses of lovely terraced gardens, of the winding river
far below his feet, of the pu