hat I can't pretend to--or to royal blood if I like: it's not
better than mine. Humiliated, indeed! That is news. Ha! ha! You don't
suppose that your pedigree, which I know all about, and the Newcome
family, with your barber-surgeon to Edward the Confessor, are equal
to----"

"To yours? No. It is not very long that I have learned to disbelieve in
that story altogether. I fancy it was an odd whim of my poor father's,
and that our family were quite poor people.

"I knew it," said Lord Farintosh. "Do you suppose there was not plenty
of women to tell it me?"

"It was not because we were poor that I am ashamed," Ethel went on. "That
cannot be our fault, though some of us seem think it is, as they hide
the truth so. One of my uncles used to tell me that my grandfather's
father was a labourer in Newcome: but I was a child then, and liked to
believe the prettiest story best."

"As if it matters!" cries Lord Farintosh.

"As if it matters in your wife? n'est-ce pas? I never thought that it
would. I should have told you, as it was my duty to tell you all. It was
not my ancestors you cared for; and it is you yourself that your wife
must swear before heaven to love."

"Of course it's me," answers the young man, not quite understanding
the train of ideas in his companion's mind. "And I've given up
everything--everything--and have broken off with my old habits and--and
things, you know--and intend to lead a regular life--and will never go
to Tattersall's again; nor bet a shilling; nor touch another cigar if
you like--that is, if you don't like; for I love you so, Ethel--I do,
with all my heart I do!"

"You are very generous and kind, Lord Farintosh," Ethel said. "It
is myself, not you, I doubt. Oh, I am humiliated to make such a
confession!"

"How humiliated?" Ethel withdrew the hand which the young nobleman
endeavoured to seize.

"If," she continued, "if I found it was your birth, and your name, and
your wealth that I coveted, and had nearly taken, ought I not to feel
humiliated, and ask pardon of you and of God? Oh, what perjuries poor
Clara was made to speak,--and see what has befallen her! We stood by and
heard her without being shocked. We applauded even. And to what shame
and misery we brought her! Why did her parents and mine consign her
to such ruin! She might have lived pure and happy but for us. With her
example before me--not her flight, poor child--I am not afraid of
that happening to me--but her long solitude,