ilway!' Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity
of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of
an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to
recommend to the other child.

'I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying
him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard,
that I cannot bear them.'

'Why will you not marry your cousin?'

'I am not good enough for him.'

'Nonsense!'

'Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above
me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And
I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from
you now. Good night, mamma,' she said, coming up to her mother and
kissing her. 'Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me.' Lady
Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to
leave the room.

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul
Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel
he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had
declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--
and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked
as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. 'I do not wish it to
be talked of,' said Roger after a pause,--'and of course I could not
speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood.
You remember old Ruggles?'

'You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John
Crumb.'

'Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame
of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her.'

'Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?'

'No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down
there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been
taken to London by him.'

'That would be very bad.'

'He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I
first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been
friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means.
But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course
he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse
cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty,
and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be
able to