ed herself. For practical purposes that was as good as
dying. He has much to be grateful for. Suppose she had come home with
him! She would have ruined him socially and morally."

"And if she doesn't die," said Cynthia slowly, "what will Philip do
then?"

"Ship her off to America, as she asks him, and prove a few little facts
in the divorce court--simple enough! It oughtn't to take him much more
than six months to get free--which he never has been yet!" added
Georgina, with particular emphasis.

"It's a mercy, my dear, that you didn't just happen to be Lady
Buntingford!"

"As if I had ever expected to be!" said Cynthia, much nettled.

"Well, you would, and you wouldn't have been!" said Georgina
obstinately. "It's very complicated. You would have had to be married
again--after the divorce."

"I don't know why you are so unkind, Georgie!" There was a little
quaver in Cynthia's voice. "Philip's a very old friend of mine, and I'm
very sorry and troubled about him. Why do you smirch it all with these
horrid remarks?"

"I won't make any more, if you don't like them," said Georgina,
unabashed--"except just to say this, Cynthia--for the first time I
begin to believe in your chance. There was always something not cleared
up about Philip, and it might have turned out to be something past
mending. Now it is cleared up; and it's bad--but it might have been
worse. However--we'll change the subject. What about that handsome
young woman, Helena?"

"Now, if you'd chanced to say it was a mercy _she_ didn't happen to be
Lady Buntingford, there'd have been some sense in it!" Cynthia's tone
betrayed the soreness within.

Lady Georgina laughed, or rather chuckled.

"I know Philip a great deal better than you do, my dear, though he is
your friend. He has made himself, I suspect, as usual, much too nice to
that child; and he may think himself lucky if he hasn't broken her
heart. He isn't a flirt--I agree. But he produces the same
effect--without meaning it. Without meaning anything indeed--except to
be good and kind to a young thing. The men with Philip's manners and
Philip's charm--thank goodness, there aren't many of them!--have an
abominable responsibility. The poor moth flops into the candle before
she knows where she is. But as to marrying her--it has never entered his
head for a moment, and never would."

"And why shouldn't it, please?"

"Because she is much too young for him--and Philip is a tired man.
Haven't you seen