nt her from having any happiness. That she's hiding
till the man she's engaged to can take her to Scotland and have a Scotch
marriage--at Gretna Green, if possible, because it would be romantic,
and her mother was married there. The Scotch girl, with northern
coldness of reason, has pointed out that Gretna Green is nowadays like
any other place, but Ellaline is not weaned from the idea. She appears
to have fascinated her new friend (as she did her old ones), in spite of
the northern coldness, and has received a pressing invitation to visit
at the girl's house in Scotland until Honore can claim her.

There is a mother, as well as a girl, but only a stepmother, and
apparently a detail; for the girl has the money and the strength of
will. The two are stopping in a pension near Madame de Blanchemain's
house. The girl is a Miss McNamarra, with freckles and no figure, but
engaged to an officer, and consequently sympathetic. She has advised
Ellaline that, if she travels from France to Scotland with Honore, on
the way to be married, he mayn't respect her as much as if she had
friends and chaperons, and a nice place to wait for him. Ellaline is too
French at heart not to feel that this advice is good--though she adds in
her letter that she, of course, trusts darling Honore completely;--so
she has accepted the invitation.

The only trouble is, she wants more money at once. She must let golden
louis run through her fingers like water, for I sent her nearly all Sir
Lionel handed me before we started on the trip. I shall have to ask him
for more, and I'll hate doing that, because, though I shall be gone out
of his life so soon, I'm too vain and self-conscious (it must be that!)
to like making a bad impression on his mind while we're together.

I shan't hate it as much, however, as I should, supposing that something
which happened last night _hadn't_ happened. I'm coming to that part
presently. It's the thing that's made me happy--the thing that won't
last long.

We left adorable little Sidmouth days ago--I almost forget how many,
coming as far as Exeter along a lovely road. But then, everything is
lovely in Devonshire. It is almost more beautiful than the New Forest,
only so different that, thank goodness, it isn't necessary to compare
the two kinds of scenery.

Perhaps Devonshire, stripped of its bold, red rocks, drained of its
brilliant blue sea, and despoiled of its dark moors, might be too sugary
sweet with its flower-drape