e
of three miles an hour.

"I used to be very fond of Switzerland," said Trevelyan, "but I don't
care about it now. My eye has lost all its taste."

"It isn't the eye," said Glascock.

"Well; no. The truth is that when one is absolutely unhappy one
cannot revel in the imagination. I don't believe in the miseries of
poets."

"I think myself," said Glascock, "that a poet should have a good
digestion. By-the-bye, Mrs. Trevelyan and her sister went down to
Nuncombe Putney, in Devonshire."

"They did go there."

"Have they moved since? A very pretty place is Nuncombe Putney."

"You have been there then?"

Mr. Glascock blushed again. He was certainly an awkward man, saying
things that he ought not to say, and telling secrets which ought not
to have been told. "Well;--yes. I have been there,--as it happens."

"Just lately do you mean?"

Mr. Glascock paused, hoping to find his way out of the scrape, but
soon perceived that there was no way out. He could not lie, even
in an affair of love, and was altogether destitute of those honest
subterfuges,--subterfuges honest in such position,--of which a dozen
would have been at once at the command of any woman, and with one
of which, sufficient for the moment, most men would have been able
to arm themselves. "Indeed, yes," he said, almost stammering as
he spoke. "It was lately;--since your wife went there." Trevelyan,
though he had been told of the possibility of Mr. Glascock's
courtship, felt himself almost aggrieved by this man's intrusion
on his wife's retreat. Had he not sent her there that she might
be private; and what right had any one to invade such privacy? "I
suppose I had better tell the truth at once," said Mr. Glascock. "I
went to see Miss Rowley."

"Oh, indeed."

"My secret will be safe with you, I know."

"I did not know that there was a secret," said Trevelyan. "I should
have thought that they would have told me."

"I don't see that. However, it doesn't matter much. I got nothing by
my journey. Are the ladies still at Nuncombe Putney?"

"No, they have moved from there to London."

"Not back to Curzon Street?"

"Oh dear, no. There is no house in Curzon Street for them now." This
was said in a tone so sad that it almost made Mr. Glascock weep.
"They are staying with an aunt of theirs,--out to the east of the
city."

"At St. Diddulph's?"

"Yes;--with Mr. Outhouse, the clergyman there. You can't conceive
what it is not to be able to see your own c