in Lady Maulevrier's temperament to be
satisfied with such an existence; that falcon eye was never meant to
gaze for ever upon one narrow range of mountain and lake; that lip was
made to speak among the great ones of the world.

Lady Maulevrier was particularly gracious to her grandson's friend this
evening. Maulevrier spoke so decisively about a speedy migration
northward, seemed so inclined to regret the time wasted since the
twelfth of the month, that she thought the danger was past, and she
could afford to be civil. She really liked the young man, had no doubt
in her own mind that he was a gentleman in the highest and broadest
sense of the word, but not in the sense which made him an eligible
husband for either of her granddaughters.

Lesbia was in a pensive mood this evening. She sat in the verandah,
looking dreamily at the lake, and at Fairfield yonder, a broad green
slope, silvered with moonlight, and seeming to stretch far away into
unfathomable distance.

If one could but take one's lover by the hand and go wandering over
those mystic moonlit slopes into some new unreal world where it would
not matter whether a man were rich or poor, high-born or low-born, where
there should be no such things as rank and state to be won or lost!
Lesbia felt to-night as if she would like to live out her life in
dreamland. Reality was too hard, too much set round by difficulties and
sacrifices.

While Lesbia was losing herself in that dream-world, Lady Maulevrier
unbent considerably to John Hammond, and talked to him with more
appearance of interest in his actual self, and in his own affairs, than
she had manifested hitherto although she had been uniformly courteous.

She asked him his plans for the future--had he chosen a profession?

He told her that he had not. He meant to devote himself to literature
and politics.

'Is not that rather vague?' inquired her ladyship.

'Everything is vague at first.'

'But literature now--as an amusement, no doubt, it is delightful--but as
a profession--does literature ever pay?'

'There have been such cases.'

'Yes, I suppose so. Walter Scott, Gibbon, Macaulay, Froude, those made
money no doubt. But there is a suspicion of hopelessness in the idea of
a young man starting in life intending to earn his bread by literature.
One remembers Chatterton. I should have thought that in your case the
law or the church would have been better. In the latter Maulevrier might
have been useful to