d
abominable. All that he had heard at San Francisco had substantiated
Roger's views. 'Any scrape is better than that scrape,' Roger had said
to him. Paul had believed his Mentor, and had believed with a double
faith as soon as he had seen Hetta Carbury.

But what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passed
between them, that he should leave Mrs Hurtle at her lodgings at
Islington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that she
would not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal,--though it
seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition of
their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort. To take
her out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to some theatre,
would be easy and perhaps pleasant. It would be easier, and certainly
much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to abstain from
talking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happy evenings,
delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were first
together at New York. There could be no better companion for such a
festival. She could talk,--and she could listen as well as talk. And she
could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense of her feminine
charms by her simple proximity. He had been very happy when so placed.
Had it been possible he would have escaped the danger now, but the
reminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to the
performance of this perilous duty.

But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? When
the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her back
to her door, what should he say to her then? He must make some
arrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a great
peril, and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could not
now go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury his
rival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the
widow. Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow
himself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling,
but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to
Roger Carbury. He could not say all that he would have to say without
speaking of Hetta,--and of his love for Hetta he could not speak to his
rival.

He had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no other
human being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself. He thought
for a moment that he would write a s