oned ahead;
behind were the chains. These two letters of the one fact plucked her
back. The chained body bore the fluttering spirit: or it was the spirit
in bonds, that dragged the body. Both were abashed before the image of
her girl. Out of the riddle of her strange Nesta, one thing was clear:
she did not love the man: and Nataly tasted gladness in that, from the
cup of poisonous regrets at the thought. Her girl's heart would not
be broken. But if he so strongly loved her, as to hold to this
engagement?... It might then be worse. She dropped a plumb-line into the
young man, sounding him by what she knew of him and judged. She had to
revert to Nesta's charm, for the assurance of his anchored attachment.

Her holiday took the burden of her trouble, and amid the beauty of a
disenchanted scene, she resumed the London incubus.

'You told him of her being at the Wells? in the neighbourhood, Victor?'

'Didn't you know, my dear, the family-seat is Cronidge, two miles out
from the Wells?--and particularly pretty country.'

'I had forgotten, if I ever heard. You will not let him be in
ignorance?'

'My dear love, you are pale about it. This is a matter between men. I
write, thanking for the honour and so forth; and I appoint an interview;
and I show him my tablets. He must be told, necessarily. Incidents of
this kind come in their turn. If Dudley does not account himself the
luckiest young fellow in the kingdom, he's not worthy of his good
fortune. I wish they were both here now, honeymooning among these peaks,
seeing the crescent over one, as we did last night!'

'Have you an idea, in reading Nesta's letter?'

'Seems indifferent?--mere trick to hide the blushes. And I, too, I'm
interested in Delphica. Delphica and Falarique will be fine stage
business. Of course, Dr. Bouthoin and his curate!--we know what Old
England has to expect from Colney.'

'At any rate, Mr. Durance hurts no one. You will, in your letter,
appoint the day of the interview?'

'Hurts himself! Yes, dearest; appoint for--ten days homeward--eleventh
day from to-day. And you to Fredi: a bit of description--as you can, my
Nataly! Happy to be a dolomite, to be painted by Nataly's pen.'

The sign is evil, when we have a vexatious ringing in the ear of some
small piece of familiar domestic chatter, and subject it to scrutiny,
hang on it, worry and magnify it. What will not creatures under sway
of the sensational life, catch at to emphasize and strengthen di