go till I have revenged myself and him."

Bella, like most bullies, was a terrible coward. There was an
earnestness in Valerie's words, and a dangerous light in her eyes, that
frightened her, and she left the room in silence, while Valerie leaned
her forehead on Spit's silky back, and cried bitterly, tears that for
her life she wouldn't have shed while her cousin was there.

The next time Falkenstein called at Lowndes Square, the footman told
him, "Not at home," and Waldemar swore, mentally, as he turned from the
door, for though he could keep himself from seeking her, it was
something new not to find her when he wished.

"She's like all the rest," he thought bitterly; "She's used me, and now
she's gone to newer friends. I was a fool to suppose any woman would do
otherwise. They'll tell her I can't marry; of course she'll go over to
D'Orwood, or some of those confounded fools that are dangling after
her."

So in his skeptical haste judged Falkenstein, on the strength of a
single "Not at home," due to Cashranger malice, and the fierce throbs
the mere suspicion gave him showed him that he loved Valerie too much to
be able to deceive himself any longer with the assurance that his
feelings towards his protegee was simple "friendship." He knew it, but
he was loth to give way to it. He had long held as a doctrine that a man
could forget if he chose. He had been wearied of so many, been
disappointed in so much, he had had idols of the hour, in which, their
first gloss off, he had found no beauty, he could not tell; it might not
be the same with Valerie. Warm and passionate as a Southern, haughty and
reserved as a Northern, he held many a bitter conflict in his solitary
vigils at night over his pipe, after evenings spent in society which no
longer amused him, or excitement with which he vainly sought to drown
his cares. When he did meet Valerie out, which was rarely, as he
refused most invitations now, his struggle against his ill-timed passion
made his manner so cold and capricious, that Valerie, who could not
divine the workings of his heart, began, despite her vehement faith in
him, and conviction that he was not wholly indifferent to her, to dread
that Bella might be right, and that as he had left others so would he
leave her. He gave her no opportunity of questioning him as to his
sudden change, for when he did call in Lowndes Square, Bella and her
aunt always stationed themselves as a sort of detective police, and
Fa