women about her,
seemed to gain rather than lose by the contrast, and her costumes
seemed to be endless in their variety as well as in their beauty.
Certainly she had an air of being born to the purple, and her
husband's pride in her was undoubted, if unexpressed.

Bettina was aware that this pride was his strongest feeling in
regard to her, and she was abundantly willing to have it so. If she
had found it difficult to fall in love with a youth who might have
disturbed the heart of Diana, she was not likely to have fallen in
love with the cool, cynical, narrow-chested, thin-haired man whom she
could yet feel a certain pride in owning as her husband, since his
appearance, no less than his name, was distinguished. She had always
had a theory that she would never love deeply any one besides her
mother, and her two experiences in the lottery of marriage, so
different as they were, convinced her that her knowledge of herself
had been correct. She was glad of it. The hot anguish which at times
even yet contracted her heart at the thought of her mother made her
hope devoutly that she would never love again. The joy of it could
not be worth the pain.

When Lady Hurdly's house-party broke up, she went with her husband on
a round of visits to other country-houses. This phase of society she
liked, and she threw herself into it with ardor. But toward the end
she wearied of these visits, as she had wearied of London, and was
glad to get back to Kingdon Hall. Instead of rest, however, she found
restlessness, and the disturbing thoughts which she had smothered
before came back with added force. It was a relief to her to think of
going abroad--Lord Hurdly having made plans for their spending some
months of the winter on the Continent.

There was one instinctive fear connected with this plan--the
possibility that she might by some chance encounter Horace. She had
little fear that he would come to England. What would it matter if
she should meet him? He had never been anything to her, really--so
she assured herself--and she had certainly been, in reality, quite as
little to him. Yet she did unreasonably dread such a meeting with
him, and felt anxious to know where he was.

Accordingly, one morning she asked Parlett, in a casual way, if she
ever heard from Mr. Horace.

"Oh yes, my lady; he writes to me now and then," replied the
housekeeper. Bettina had not expected to hear this; her only thought
was to draw out some information g