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too little,” said Evelyn, “of honest meaning and truth.”

      “Oh, as for that! but if you think you will find truth or honest meaning, my dear, in Ned Saumarez, you will be very far wrong; and if he can lead you into a mess with your husband, or get you talked about——”

      “He will never get me into a mess with my husband, you may be certain of that, Madeline.”

      “Oh, if you will take your own way, I cannot help it,” cried Lady Leighton. “I have done all I can. And now come down to lunch. At all events we must not quarrel, you and I.”

      The lunch, however, was not a very successful one, and Evelyn refused to take any further action about Chester Street, and was so determined in her resistance that her friend at last gave up the argument, and with something very like the quarrel she had deprecated, allowed Mrs. Rowland to depart alone for her hotel, which she did in great fervour of indignation and distress. But as she walked quickly along the long line of the park, she perceived with a pang of alarm and surprise, the invalid’s chair being drawn across the end of the ride, into the same path where she had met Saumarez an hour or two before. Was it possible that Madeline could be right? Was he going back to wait for her there? She stood but for a moment and watched the slow mournful progress of the chair, the worn-out figure lying back in it, the ashen face amid the many wraps. A certain awe came over her. She had been long out of the world, and had never been{v.1–10101} very wise in such matters: and who could believe that a man in the last stage of life should be able to amuse himself by schemes at once so base and so frivolous? She turned back half-ashamed of herself for doing so, and went home another way. It might be, she said to herself with a compunction, that all he meant was after all what he thought his children’s interest: then with a thrill of self-suspicion asked herself, was this the vanity by which Madeline, too clear sighted, had suggested she might be moved? Oh, clearly the world was not a place for her! The mere discussion of such possibilities abashed and shamed her. Her simple husband, who could not cope with these fine people, and upon whom probably they would look down—her home, far from all such ignoble suggestions, her own difficulties, which might be troublesome enough, but not like these—how much better they were! Her heart had been a little caught by the aspect of the old life from which she had been separated so long, and she had begun to think that with all the advantages her new position gave her, it might be pleasant to resume those of the old one, and venture a little upon the sea of society, which looked so bright at the first glance. Had she yielded to this temptation no doubt the good Rowland would have followed her guidance, pleased with anything she suggested, delighted for a time with the fine company, giving up his chosen life for her sake. And it is very probable that, had Lady Leighton foreseen the disgust with which her warning would fill her friend’s mind, she would have been chary about giving it, and would{v.1–10202} have preferred to let Evelyn take her chance of compromise and danger. The worst of society is, that it deadens the mind to the base and vile, taking away all horror of things unclean, by inculcating a perpetual suspicion of their existence. But no such deadening influence had ever been in Evelyn’s mind. She sent another letter to her husband by that afternoon’s post, which, in the midst of various tribulations of his own, made that good man’s heart leap. She told him that she had changed her mind about staying in London, that it was odious to her: that she counted the hours till he should return, that she longed for Rosmore, and to see the Clyde and the lochs, and the children, and “our own home.” James Rowland, though he was not a sentimental man, kissed this letter; for he was in great need of consolation, having in full measure his own troubles too.

CHAPTER VIII.

       Table of Contents

      Evelyn scarcely went out at all next day. She paid a visit to some of the old furniture shops in the morning, which was a direction quite different from that in which she would be subjected to any painful meeting—and realised once more her husband’s simple maxim that there was great diversion in buying. She did buy within a certain range, expensive articles—things which she knew Madeline Leighton would covet but could not afford, with a kind of pleasure in the unnecessary extravagance which she was half ashamed{v.1–10303} of, half amused by when she realised it. The old marqueterie was solid and beautifully made, and had borne the brunt of years of usage; it was not a hollow fiction like the fabric of society which Lady Leighton and such as she expounded as unutterably vile, yet clung to as if it were the only thing true. Evelyn declared to herself that she would have no house in Chester Street. To cover up the old faded carpets with pretty Persian rugs, and make the dingy rooms fine with temporary fittings up which did not belong to them, was, like all the rest, a deception and disgust. The pretty things should be for her own house, where they would be placed to remain as long as she lived, where they would be like herself, at home. But except the time she spent in these shops, which was not very long, she did not go out all day. And she had, it must be allowed, got very tired of her own company, when in the afternoon the door was opened suddenly, and a servant appeared to announce some one, a young lady, about whose name he was very doubtful, for Mrs. Rowland. He was followed into the room by the slim figure of a girl looking very young but very self-possessed and unabashed, with an ease of manner which Evelyn was not accustomed to see in her kind. This young lady was dressed very simply, as girls who are not “out” (as well as many who are) are specially supposed to be. The grey frock was spotless, and beautifully made, but it was absolutely unadorned, and she had not an ornament or a ribbon about her to break the severe grace of her outline. But to make amends for this, she had the radiant{v.1–10404} complexion which is so often seen in English girls—a complexion not yet put in jeopardy either by hot rooms and late hours, or by the experiences of Ascot and Goodwood and Hurlingham; her hair was very light, not the conventional gold. She came forward to Evelyn with the air of a perfect little woman of the world. “I am Rosamond Saumarez,” she said, holding out her hand; “my father told me I was to come to see you.” Evelyn stumbled up to her feet with a startled sensation, bewildered by a visit so absolutely unexpected. The young lady took her extended hand, and shook it affably, then with a little air of begging Mrs. Rowland to be seated, like a young princess, drew forth for herself a low chair.

      “He said I need not explain who I was, for that you would know.”

      “Yes,” said Evelyn, “you must forgive me for being a little confused.”

      “Oh, I dare say you were having a little doze. It is so warm; and don’t you find the noise soothing? There is never any break in it: it goes on and on, and puts one to sleep.”

      “I don’t find it has that quality,” said Evelyn, half affronted to have it supposed that she was dozing. “It is strange for me,” she said, “to meet your father’s children. I knew him only as a young man.”

      “Oh yes, I know,” said the young lady, nodding her head with an air of knowing all about it, which confused Evelyn still more.

      “He told me he had two children, I think. Are you the eldest?” she asked almost timidly.{v.1–10505}

      “Oh no, Eddy is the eldest: but I’m the most serious. I have got the sense of the family, everybody says. Eddy is with a crammer trying hard to pass the army examination; but he never will: he hates books, and is very fond of his fun. That may be natural, but you will agree that it is not very good for getting on in life.”

      “I suppose not,” said Evelyn.

      “No, certainly; and so much is thought of doing something now-a-days. I suppose father was not very much in the way of working when you knew him, Mrs. Rowland: and yet he is as hard upon Eddy as if he had done nothing but what was good all his life.”

      “Your father is a very great sufferer, I fear,” said Evelyn, who had entirely lost her presence of mind, and did not know what to say.

      “Oh no, not so much as you would think. Of course he’s very helpless: Jarvis has to do everything for him. But I don’t think he really minds—not so much as people would think. He likes to be pitied and sympathized with, and to look interesting. Poor father; he thinks

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