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pardon most sincerely.”

      “But you’ll be Mrs Cheesacre; won’t you?”

      “No, Mr Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham.”

      “Oh, damn it!” said he, in utter disgust at this further reference to Mr Greenow. The expression, at such a moment, militated against courtesy; but even Mrs Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been subjected to provocation.

      “Let us part friends,” said she, offering him her hand.

      But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her, and that at this moment he would have taken her, even though he had learned that her fortune was gone.

      “Will you not give me your hand,” said she, “in token that there is no anger between us?”

      “Do think about it again—do!” said he. “If there’s anything you like to have changed, I’ll change it at once. I’ll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don’t like being so near the farmyard. I’ll give up anything; so I will. Mrs Greenow, if you only knew how I’ve set my heart upon it!” And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.

      She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and perhaps few women would be less likely to give way to such tenderness than Mrs Greenow. She understood men and women too well, and had seen too much both of the world’s rough side and of its smooth side to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched. “My friend,” she said, putting her hand upon his arm, “think no more of it.”

      “But I can’t help thinking of it,” said he, almost blubbering in his earnestness.

      “No, no, no,” said she, still touching him with her hand. “Why, Mr Cheesacre, how can you bring yourself to care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?”

      “I don’t want any young lady,” said he.

      “There’s Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know.”

      “Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!” The very idea of having such a bride palmed off upon him did something to restore him to his manly courage.

      “Or my niece, Kate Vavasor, who has a nice little fortune of her own, and who is as accomplished as she is good-looking.”

      “She’s nothing to me, Mrs Greenow.”

      “That’s because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn’t do better if you searched all England over. It would be so pleasant for us to be such near friends; wouldn’t it?” And again she put her hand upon his arm.

      “Mrs Greenow, just at present there’s only one woman in the world that I can think of.”

      “And that’s my niece.”

      “And that’s yourself. I’m a brokenhearted man,—I am, indeed. I didn’t ever think I should feel so much about a thing of the kind—I didn’t, really. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I’d better go back to Oileymead.” He had become so painfully unconscious of his new coat and his knickerbockers that it was impossible not to pity him. “I shall always hate the place now,” he said,—”always.”

      “That will pass away. You’d be as happy as a king there, if you’d take Kate for your queen.”

      “And what’ll you do, Mrs Greenow?”

      “What shall I do?”—”Yes; what will you do?”

      “That is, if you marry Kate? Why, I’ll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should.”

      “But about—.” Then he hesitated, and she asked him of what he was thinking.

      “You don’t mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?”

      “Come, Mr Cheesacre, that’s rank jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man or no man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I’m carried to my grave; but I’m not going to give any pledge about it to you or to any one.”

      “You don’t know that man, Mrs Greenow; you don’t, indeed. I tell it you as your friend. Does not it stand to reason, when he has got nothing in the world, that he must be a beggar? It’s all very well saying that when a man is courting a lady, he shouldn’t say much about his money; but you won’t make me believe that any man will make a good husband who hasn’t got a shilling. And for lies, there’s no beating him!”

      “Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?”

      “Well, because I’ve been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose.”

      “And you want to prevent me from doing the same thing.”

      “If you were to marry him, Mrs Greenow, it’s my belief I should do him a mischief; it is, really. I don’t think I could stand it;—a mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I’d better go now?”

      “Certainly, if that’s the way you choose to talk about my friends.”

      “Friends, indeed! Well, I won’t say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn’t be any good?”

      “Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr Cheesacre.”

      To this he made no reply, but went forth from the house, and got his gig, and drove himself home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover. “I didn’t ever think I should ever care so much about anything,” he said, as he took himself up to bed that night.

      That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would do, but he was not admitted. “Her mistress was very bad with a headache,” Jeannette said.

Chapter XLVIII.

       Preparations for Lady Monk’s Party

       Table of Contents

      Early in April, the Easter recess being all over, Lady Monk gave a grand party in London. Lady Monk’s town house was in Gloucester Square. It was a large mansion, and Lady Monk’s parties in London were known to be very great affairs. She usually gave two or three in the season, and spent a large portion of her time and energy in so arranging matters that her parties should be successful. As this was her special line in life, a failure would have been very distressing to her;—and we may also say very disgraceful, taking into consideration, as we should do in forming our judgement on the subject, the very large sums of Sir Cosmo’s money which she spent in this way. But she seldom did fail. She knew how to select her days, so as not to fall foul of other events. It seldom happened that people could not come to her because of a division which occupied all the Members of Parliament, or that they were drawn away by the superior magnitude of some other attraction in the world of fashion. This giving of parties was her business, and she had learned it thoroughly. She worked at it harder than most men work at their trades, and let us hope that the profits were consolatory.

      It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to Lady Monk’s parties. There were certain people who were asked, and who went as a matter of course,—people who were by no means on intimate terms with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo; but they were people to have whom was the proper thing, and they were people who understood that to go to Lady Monk’s was the proper thing for them. The Duchess of St Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk, and Lady Monk always abused her; but a card was sent to the Duchess in the same way as the Lord Mayor invites a Cabinet Minister to dinner, even though

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