t dine at home to-day."

And so the solicitor-general went his way, and his wife remained
sitting motionless at her dressing-table. They had both of them
already become aware that the bargain they had made was not a wise
one.

CHAPTER V.

CAN I ESCAPE?

Had not George Bertram been of all men the most infirm of purpose, he
would have quitted London immediately after that ball--at any rate,
for many months. But he was lamentably infirm of purpose. He said
to himself over and over again, that it behoved him to go. What had
either of them done for him that he should regard them? That had
hitherto been the question within his own breast; but now it was
changed. Had he not greatly injured her? Had she not herself told
him that his want of mercy had caused all her misery? Ought he not,
at any rate, to spare her now? But yet he remained. He must ask her
pardon before he went; he would do that, and then he would go.

His object was to see her without going to Eaton Square. His instinct
told him that Sir Henry no longer wished to see him there, and he
was unwilling to enter the house of any one who did not wish his
presence. For two weeks he failed in his object. He certainly did see
Lady Harcourt, but not in such a way as to allow of conversation; but
at last fortune was propitious,--or the reverse, and he found himself
alone with her.

She was seated quite alone, turning over the engravings which lay in
a portfolio before her, when he came up to her.

"Do not be angry," he said, "if I ask you to listen to me for a few
moments."

She still continued to move the engravings before her, but with a
slower motion than before; and though her eye still rested on the
plates, he might have seen, had he dared to look at her, that her
mind was far away from them. He might have seen also that there was
no flash of anger now in her countenance: her spirit was softer than
on that evening when she had reproached him; for she had remembered
that he also had been deeply injured. But she answered nothing to the
request which he thus made.

"You told me that I was unforgiving," he continued, "I now come to
beg that you will not be unforgiving also; that is, if I have done
anything that has caused you--caused you to be less happy than you
might have been."

"Less happy!" she said; but not with that scorn with which she had
before repeated his words.

"You believe, I hope, that I would wish you to be happy; that I would
do a