ly a light of intense, of
immense relief broke in her face.

"Thank goodness!" she sighed. "I had forgotten. No, he does n't dream
that. But oh, the fright I had!"

"He'll tell you, all the same," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I 'll give him
no chance," Beatrice answered.

"Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him," said her friend.

"Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities," cried Beatrice.

"You'll marry him," reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly. "You'll
end by marrying him--if you're human; and I've seldom known a human
being who was more so. It's not in flesh and blood to remain unmoved by
a tribute such as that man has paid you. The first thing you'll do will
be to re-read the novel. Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself,
for I 'm naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin
gold--but I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will itself be
wanting, directly it's alone. And then the poison will work. And you'll
end by marrying him."

"In the first place," replied Beatrice, firmly, "I shall never marry any
one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place, I shall not re-read
the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I shall insist on your taking it
with you when you leave to-day. And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced
that you're right about my being... well, you might as well say the
raw material, the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare
possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me before.
Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know how to prevent any
possible developments."

"In the first place," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal firmness,
"wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel. Wait till you're
alone. A hundred questions about it will come flocking to your mind;
you'd be miserable if you had n't it to refer to. In the next place, the
poison will work and work. Say what you will, it's flattery that wins
us. In the third place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good
Catholic of him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow,
for a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And
your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and he's not
bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title, now, I wonder? Or
will you step down, and be plain Mrs. Marchdale? No--the Honourable
Mrs.--excuse me--'Mr. and the Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see