lively Caroline of old.

Again the Man of the World directed toward her face his shrewd eyes, and
dropped out, "See him!"

"But I have seen him. You remember I went to plead for Lionel and
Sophy--in vain!"

"Not in vain. George writes me word that he has informed you of
Darrell's consent to their marriage. And I am much mistaken if his
greatest consolation in the pang that consent must have cost him be not
the thought that it relieves you from the sorrow and remorse his refusal
had occasioned to you. Ah! there is but one person who can restore
Darrell to the world-and that is yourself!"

Lady Montfort shook her head drearily.

"If I had but an excuse--with dignity--with self-respect--to--to--!'

"An excuse! You have an absolute necessity to communicate with Darrell.
You have to give him these documents--to explain how you came by them.
Sophy is with him; you are bound to see her on a subject of such vital
importance to herself. Scruples of prudery! You, Caroline Lyndsay,
the friend of his daughter--you whose childhood was reared in his very
house--you whose mother owed to him such obligations--you to scruple
in being the first to acquaint him with information affecting him so
nearly! And why, forsooth? Because, ages ago, your hand was, it seems,
engaged to him, and you were deceived by false appearances, like a silly
young girl as you were."

Again Lady Montfort shook her head drearily--drearily. "Well," said the
Colonel, changing his tone, "I will grant that those former ties can't
be renewed now. The man now is as old as the hills, and you had no right
to expect that he would have suffered so much at being very naturally
jilted for a handsome young Marquess."

"Cease, sir, cease," cried Caroline, angrily. The Colonel coolly
persisted.

"I see now that such nuptials are out of the question. But has the world
come to such a pass that one can never at any age have a friend in a
lady unless she marry him? Scruple to accompany me--me your cousin--me
your nearest surviving relation--in order to take back the young lady
you have virtually adopted!--scruple to trust yourself for half an hour
to that tumbledown old Fawley! Are you afraid that the gossips will
say you, the Marchioness of Montfort, are running after a gloomy old
widower, and scheming to be mistress of a mansion more like a ghosttrap
than a residence for civilised beings? Or are you afraid that Guy
Darrell will be fool and fop enough to think you are c