enclosure, and wandered on over the bridge across the water. As
he went his mind was full of thought. Could it be good for him to
give up everything for a fair face? He swore to himself that of all
women whom he had ever seen Mary was the sweetest and the dearest and
the best. If it could be well to lose the world for a woman, it would
be well to lose it for her. Violet, with all her skill, and all her
strength, and all her grace, could never have written such a letter
as that which he still held in his pocket. The best charm of a woman
is that she should be soft, and trusting, and generous; and who ever
had been more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his Mary?
Of course he would be true to her, though he did lose the world.

But to yield such a triumph to the Ratlers and Bonteens whom he left
behind him,--to let them have their will over him,--to know that they
would rejoice scurrilously behind his back over his downfall! The
feeling was terrible to him. The last words which Bonteen had spoken
made it impossible to him now not to support his old friend Mr. Monk.
It was not only what Bonteen had said, but that the words of Mr.
Bonteen so plainly indicated what would be the words of all the other
Bonteens. He knew that he was weak in this. He knew that had he been
strong, he would have allowed himself to be guided,--if not by the
firm decision of his own spirit,--by the counsels of such men as Mr.
Gresham and Lord Cantrip, and not by the sarcasms of the Bonteens and
Ratlers of official life. But men who sojourn amidst savagery fear
the mosquito more than they do the lion. He could not bear to think
that he should yield his blood to such a one as Bonteen.

And he must yield his blood, unless he could vote for Mr. Monk's
motion, and hold his ground afterwards among them all in the House
of Commons. He would at any rate see the session out, and try a
fall with Mr. Bonteen when they should be sitting on different
benches,--if ever fortune should give him an opportunity. And in the
meantime, what should he do about Madame Goesler? What a fate was his
to have the handsomest woman in London with thousands and thousands
a year at his disposal! For,--so he now swore to himself,--Madame
Goesler was the handsomest woman in London, as Mary Flood Jones was
the sweetest girl in the world.

He had not arrived at any decision so fixed as to make him
comfortable when he went home and dressed for Mrs. Gresham's party.
And ye