continue to talk to him in a strain that prevented
the possibility of his going. But, nevertheless,
he was flattered, and he did believe that she loved
him. As to his love for her—he knew
very well that it amounted to nothing. Now and
again, perhaps, twice a week, if he saw her as often,
he would say something which would imply a declaration
of affection. He felt that as much as that was
expected from him, and that he ought not to hope to
get off cheaper. And now that this little play
was going on about Miss Van Siever, he did think that
Mrs Dobbs Broughton was doing her very best to overcome
an unfortunate attachment. It is so gratifying
to a young man’s feelings to suppose that another
man’s wife has conceived an unfortunate attachment
for him! Conway Dalrymple ought not to have been
fooled by such a woman; but I fear that he was fooled
by her.
As he returned home today from Mrs Broughton’s
house to his own lodgings he rambled out for a while
into Kensington Gardens, and thought of his position
seriously. ‘I don’t see why I should
not marry her,’ he said to himself, thinking
of course of Miss Van Siever. ’If Maria
is not in earnest it is not my fault. And it
would be my wish that she should be in earnest.
If I suppose her to be so, and take her at her word,
she can have no right to quarrel with me. Poor
Maria! At any rate it will be better for her,
for no good can come of this kind of thing. And,
by heavens, with a woman like that, of strong feelings,
one never knows what may happen.’ And then
he thought of the condition he would be in, if he
were to find her some fine day in his own rooms, and
if she were to tell him that she could not go home
again, and that she meant to remain with him!
In the meantime Mrs Dobbs Broughton has gone down
into her own drawing-room, had tucked herself up on
the sofa, and had fallen fast asleep.
A NEW FLIRTATION
John Eames sat at his office on the day after his
return to London, and answered the various letters
which he had found waiting for him at his lodgings
on the previous evening. To Miss Demolines he
had already written from his club, a single line,
which he considered to be appropriate to the mysterious
necessities of the occasion. ’I will be
with you at a quarter to six tomorrow.—J
E. Just returned.’ There was not another
word; and as he scrawled it at one of the club tables
while two or three other men were talking to him,
he felt rather proud of his correspondence. ‘It
was capital fun,’ he said; ’and after all’—the
‘all’ on this occasion being Lily Dale,
and the sadness of his disappointment at Allington—’after
all, let a fellow be ever so down in the mouth, a
little amusement should do him good.’ And
he reflected further that the more a fellow be ‘down
in the mouth’, the more good the amusement would
do him. He sent off his note, therefore, with
some little inward rejoicing—and a word
of two also of spoken rejoicing. ‘What
fun women are sometimes,’ he said to one of his
friends—a friend with whom he was very
intimate, calling him always Fred, and slapping his
back, but whom he never by any chance saw out of his
club.
