ch a position brought with it."
And Lord Shotover delivered it as his opinion that,--"It might be all
right. He hoped to goodness it was, for he'd always been uncommonly
fond of the young un. But it seemed to him rather a put-up job all
round, and so he meant just to keep his eye on Con, he swore he did."
In furtherance of which laudable determination he braved his eldest
sister's frowns with heroic intrepidity, calling to see the young girl
whenever all other sources of amusement failed him, and paying her the
compliment--as is the habit of the natural man, when unselfishly
desirous of giving pleasure to the women of his family--of talking
continuously and exclusively about his own affairs, his gains at cards,
his losses on horses, even recounting, in moments of more than
ordinarily expansive affection, the less wholly disreputable episodes
of his many adventures of the heart. And Honoria St. Quentin's
sensitive face straightened and her lips closed rather tight whenever
the marriage was mentioned before her. She refused to express any view
on the subject, and to that end took rather elaborate pains to avoid
the society of Mr. Quayle. And Lady Dorothy Hellard,--whose unhappy
disappointment in respect of the late Lord Sokeington and other
non-successful excursions in the direction of wedlock, had not cured
her of sentimental leanings,--asserted that,--"It was quite the most
romantic and touching engagement she had ever heard of." To which
speech her mother, the Dowager Lady Combmartin, replied, with the
directness of statement which made her acquaintance so cautious of
differing from her:--"Touching? Romantic? Fiddle-de-dee! You ought to
be ashamed of yourself for thinking so at your age, Dorothy. A
bargain's a bargain, and in my opinion the bride has got much the best
of it. For she's a mawkish, milk-and-water, little schoolgirl, while he
is charming--all there is of him. If there'd been a little more I
declared I'd have married him myself." And good-looking Mr. Decies, of
the 101st Lancers, got into very hot water with the mounted constables,
and with the livery-stable keeper from whom he hired his hacks, for
"furious riding" in the Park. And Julius March walked the paved ways
and fragrant alleys of the red-walled gardens at Brockhurst, somewhat
sadly, in the glowing June twilights, meditating upon the pitiless
power of change which infects all things human, and of his own lifelong
love doomed to "find no earthly close