the night.'

'What is the good of a settlement?' asked Mary. 'I'm sure I don't want
one.'

'Lady Hartfield must not be dependent upon her husband's whim or
pleasure for her milliner's bill or her private charities,' answered her
lover, smiling at her eagerness to repudiate anything business-like.

'But I would rather be dependent on your pleasure. I shall never have
any milliner's bills; and I am sure you would never deny me money for
charity.'

'You shall not have to ask me for it, except when you have exceeded your
pin-money I hope you will do that now and then, just to afford me the
pleasure of doing you a favour.'

'Hartfield,' repeated Mary, to herself, as they went towards the house;
'shall I have to call you Hartfield? I don't like the name nearly so
well as Jack.'

'You shall call me Jack for old sake's sake,' said Hartfield, tenderly.

'How did you think of such a name as Jack?'

'Rather an effort of genius, wasn't it. Well, first and foremost I was
christened Ronald John--all the Hollisters are christened John--name of
the founder of the race; and, secondly, Maulevrier and I were always
plain Mr. Morland and Mr. Hammond in our travels, and always called each
other Jack and Jim.'

'How nice!' said Mary; 'would you very much mind our being plain Mr. and
Mrs. Hammond, while we are on our honeymoon trip?'

'I should like it of all things.'

'So should I. People will not take so much notice of us, and we can do
what we like, and go where we like.'

'Delightful! We'll even disguise ourselves as Cook's tourists, if you
like. I would not mind.'

They were at the door of Lady Maulevrier's sitting room by this time.
They went in, and were greeted with smiles.

'Let me look at the Countess of Hartfield that is to be in half an
hour,' said her ladyship. 'Oh, Mary, Mary, what a blind idiot I have
been, and what a lucky girl you are! I told you once that you were wiser
than Lesbia, but I little thought how much wiser you had been.'

CHAPTER XXXIV.

'OUR LOVE WAS NEW, AND THEN BUT IN THE SPRING.'

Henley Regatta was over. It had passed like a tale that is told; like
Epsom and Ascot, and all the other glories of the London season. Happy
those for whom the glory of Henley, the grace of Ascot, the fever of
Epsom, are not as weary as a twice-told tale, bringing with them only
bitterest memories of youth that has fled, of hopes that have withered,
of day-dreams that have never been realised. There ar