“No change.  His strength seems to be going.”

“I wouldn’t pity him,” sighed Bessie Duncombe; “he has only seen the best end of life, and has laid it down for something worth!  I’m sure he and your brother are the enviable ones.”

“Nay, Mrs. Duncombe, you have much to work for and love in this life.”

“And I must go away from everything just as I had learnt to value it.  Bob has taken a house at Monaco, and writes to me to bring the children to join him there!”

“At Monaco?”

“At Monaco!  Yes, and I know that it is all my own fault.  I might have done anything with him if I had known how.  But what could you expect?  I never saw my mother; I never knew a home; I was bred up at a French school, where if one was not a Roman Catholic there was not a shred of religion going.  I married after my first ball.  Nobody taught me anything; but I could not help having brains, so I read and caught the tone of the day, and made my own line, while he went on his.”

“And now there is a greater work for you to do, since you have learnt to do it.”

“Ah! learnt too late.  When habits are confirmed, and home station forfeited—­What is there left for him or my poor boys to do?”

“A colony perhaps—­”

“Damaged goods,” she said, smiling sadly.

“Then are you going?”

“As soon as I have seen this fever out, and can dispose of the things here.  I have just been to Moy’s office to see about getting rid of the lease.”

“Is Mr. Moy come home?”

“Yes.  Have you not heard?”

“What?—­Not the fever?”

“No.  Worse I should say.  Gussie has gone off and got married to Harry Simmonds.”

“The man at the training stables?”

“Yes.  They put up their banns at the Union at Brighton, and were married by the Registrar, then went off to Paris.  They say it will kill her mother.  The man is a scoundrel, who played Bob false, and won largely by that mare.  And the girl has had the cheek to write to me,” said Mrs. Duncombe, warming into her old phraseology—­“to me!—­to thank me for opportunities of meeting, and to tell me she has followed up the teaching of last year.”

“What—­the rights of women?”

“Ay.  This is a civil marriage—­not mocking her with antiquated servile vows,” she says.  “Ah, well, it was my doing, I suppose.  Clio Tallboys held forth in private, I believe, to poor Gussie, on theories that were mere talk in her, but which this poor girl has taken in earnest.”

“Very sad earnest she may find it, I fear.  Can I do anything for you?” as they reached the gate of Aucuba Villa.

“No, thank you, unless to get the house off my hands.”

“You are alone.  Will you not come and spend the evening with us?”

“That is very kind, but I have too much to do, and besides, Sister Margaret is coming to spend the night with me.”