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you I should come,” he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. “I told you that I should follow you, and here I am.”

      He took her hand, and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew with what words first to address him, or how to get her hand back from him.

      “I am very glad to see you,—as an old friend,” she said; “but I hope—”

      “Well;—you hope what?”

      “I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me?”

      “No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause, and, indeed, none other. I have come on purpose to see you; and had Mr Palliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you?”

      “Hardly,” said she,—not finding at the moment any other word that she could say.

      “Because I love you. You see what a plainspoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that.”

      “You ought not to want it,” she said, whispering the words as though she were unable to speak them out loud.

      “But I do, you see. And why should I not want it?”

      “I am not fit to be your wife.”

      “I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband.”

      “You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after all that has passed;—after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?”

      “Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say, that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that.”

      “They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt.”

      “As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But, indeed, Alice, I don’t very much care what men do say of me.”

      “But I care, Mr Grey;—and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone.” These words she said, jerking out the different sentences almost in convulsions; and when she had come to the end of them, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better,—more seemly, that I should remain as I am.”

      Soon after that she left him, not, however, till she had told him that she would meet him again at dinner, and had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. “In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends,—dear friends,” she said.

      “I hope we may,” he answered;—”the very dearest.” And then he left her.

      In the afternoon he again encountered Mr Palliser, and having thought over the matter since his interview with Alice, he resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance,—not in order that he might ask for counsel from him, for in this matter he wanted no man’s advice,—but that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together, up the banks of the clear-flowing Reuss, and Mr Palliser felt the comfort of having a companion.

      “I have always liked her,” said Mr Palliser, “though, to tell the truth, I have twice been very angry with her.”

      “I have never been angry with her,” said the lover.

      “And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were—that were—; but I need not trouble you with that.”

      So great had been the desolation of Mr Palliser’s life since his banishment from London that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood of the Pallisers, and refrained. There are comforts which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which such men as Plantagenet Palliser may not permit themselves to indulge.

      “About her and her character I have no doubt in the world,” said Grey. “In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that,—though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you, and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence and your wife’s than she can possibly be under mine.” Whereupon, Mr Palliser promised that he would do what he could. “I think she loves me,” said Mr Grey.

      Mr Palliser said that he was sure she did, though what ground he had for such assurance I am quite unable to surmise. He was probably desirous of saying the most civil thing which occurred to him.

      The little dinner-party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing more was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr Grey, and Mr Palliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was all done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr Grey was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial cooperation.

      Chapter LXXI.

       Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit

       Table of Contents

      We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr Grey’s position when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that quarrel must be told.

      It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent,—money which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid his hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousand pounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf,—or rather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills, and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jew bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once into the hands of Mr Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towards the expenses of his election; and when the day of polling arrived had exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If he were successful,—if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea Districts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank, should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, as to his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies,—mercantile companies,—would be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour’s attendance. Railways in want of vice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he might turn that “M.P.” which belonged to him to good account in various ways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, he thought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he could retain his seat in Parliament.

      But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed for still more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on his side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded had already been paid. This Mr Scruby

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