return. Then he went
back in fancied security, and found himself the centre of all those
amatory ovations which Miss Todd and Miss Gauntlet had prepared for
him.

It was about two months after this that George Bertram saw Sir Henry
Harcourt for the first time after the marriage. He had heard that
Sir Henry was in town, had heard of the blaze of their new house in
Eaton Square, had seen in the papers how magnificently Lady Harcourt
had appeared at court, how well she graced her brilliant home, how
fortunate the world esteemed that young lawyer who, having genius,
industry, and position of his own, had now taken to himself in
marriage beauty, wealth, and social charms. All this George Bertram
heard and read, and hearing it and reading it had kept himself from
the paths in which such petted children of fortune might probably be
met.

Twice in the course of these two months did Sir Henry call at
Bertram's chambers; but Bertram was now at home to no one. He lived
in a great desert, in which was no living being but himself--in a
huge desert without water and without grass, in which there was
no green thing. He was alone; to one person only had he spoken of
his misery; once only had he thought of escaping from it. That
thought had been in vain: that companion was beyond his reach; and,
therefore, living there in his London chambers, he had been all
alone.

But at last they did meet. Sir Henry, determined not to be beaten in
his attempt to effect a reconciliation, wrote to him, saying that he
would call, and naming an hour. "Caroline and you," he said, "are
cousins; there can be no reason why you should be enemies. For her
sake, if not for mine, do oblige me in this."

Bertram sat for hours with that note beneath his eyes before he could
bring himself to answer it. Could it really be that she desired
to see him again? That she, in her splendour and first glow of
prosperous joy, would wish to encounter him in his dreary, sad,
deserted misery? And why could she wish it? and, ah! how could she
wish it?

And then he asked himself whether he also would wish to see her. That
he still loved her, loved her as he never had done while she was yet
his own, he had often told himself. That he could never be at rest
till he had ceased to make her the first object of his thoughts he
had said as often. That he ought not to see her, he knew full well.
The controversy within his own bosom was carried on for two hours,
and then he wrote