ea, oppressed by her loneliness and
the home-sickness that had not left her since the shores of England faded
from her sight.

Jim felt a stir of something like resentment at his heart. He found in
the girl's words a reflection of the beliefs of his native village, and
perhaps justification of them, and saw her for the moment as the
embodiment of the respectability, the piety, and all the narrowness of
Chisley. The thought revived his habitual reserve. He meditated an
escape, already regretting that he had permitted himself to drift into
this extraordinary position.

IV

MRs. MACDOUGAL came to Done's rescue a moment later. She sauntered
languidly up to the young couple in her character of the interesting
invalid, careful to make a charming picture in the moonlight.

'It is a delightful night, Mr. Done, is it not?' she said.

Jim admitted as much, without any display of interest, and the lady
continued:

'You know our dear girl is not strong. You must not keep her in the night
air. Why, Lucy, how foolish you are! not a single wrap, and the wind so
chilly! You'll certainly have a sickness.'

'I shall not be ill, Mrs. Macdougal,' said Lucy. 'But you are very good.'

Mrs. Macdougal's plump figure was covered with furs, and a handsome shawl
trailed from her arm; but it was characteristic of Mrs. Macdougal to
profess the sweetest solicitude for other people, whilst appropriating
for her own use and pleasure all the comfortable, pleasant, and pretty
things. She was not more than thirty-three, and looked like a gipsy
spoiled by refinements. Her social schooling had been confined to a long
course of that delectable literature devoted to the amours of a strictly
honourable aristocracy with superior milkmaids, nursery governesses, and
other respectable young persons in lowly walks. Indeed, Mrs. Macdougal,
having had no early training worth speaking of, had successfully modelled
her manners upon those of a few favourite heroines. She fancied the
expression, 'It is, is it not?' lent an air of exquisite refinement to
ordinary conversation. She was naturally artificial. Artifice would have
been her certain resort in whatever path it had pleased Fate to plant her
small feet. Her temper was excellent so far as it went, and her manner
tender and clinging. She would have preferred to have been tragic with
such eyes and such hair, but with her plump figure it was not possible.
She loved attention, particularly the attentions of me