intimate, suffered a rebuff, and were from that time prepared to serve her purpose.  How many other wretched dupes had she dangling?  He spied at Westlake, spied at Redworth, at old Lord Larrian, at Lord Dannisburgh, at Arthur Rhodes, dozens.  Old and young were alike to her if she saw an end to be gained by keeping them hooked.  Tonans too, and Whitmonby.  Newspaper editors were especially serviceable.  Perhaps ‘a young Minister of State’ held the foremost rank in that respect:  if completely duped and squeezeable, he produced more substantial stuff.

The background of ice in Dacier’s composition was brought to the front by his righteous contempt of her treachery.  No explanation of it would have appeased him.  She was guilty, and he condemned her.  She stood condemned by all the evil likely to ensue from her misdeed.  Scarcely had he left her house last night when she was away to betray him!—­He shook her from him without a pang.  Crediting her with the one merit she had—­that of not imploring for mercy—­he the more easily shook her off.  Treacherous, she had not proved theatrical.  So there was no fuss in putting out her light, and it was done.  He was justified by the brute facts.  Honourable, courteous, kindly gentleman, highly civilized, an excellent citizen and a patriot, he was icy at an outrage to his principles, and in the dominion of Love a sultan of the bow-string and chopper period, sovereignly endowed to stretch a finger for the scimitared Mesrour to make the erring woman head and trunk with one blow:  and away with those remnants!  This internally he did.  Enough that the brute facts justified him.

St. James’s park was crossed, and the grass of the Green park, to avoid inquisitive friends.  He was obliged to walk; exercise, action of any sort, was imperative, and but for some engagement he would have gone to his fencing-rooms for a bout with the master.  He remembered his engagement and grew doubly embittered.  He had absurdly pledged himself to lunch with Quintin Manx; that was, to pretend to eat while submitting to be questioned by a political dullard strong on his present right to overhaul and rail at his superiors.  The house was one of a block along the North-Western line of Hyde park.  He kicked at the subjection to go there, but a promise was binding, though he gave it when stunned.  He could have silenced Mr. Manx with the posing interrogation:  Why have I so long consented to put myself at the mercy of a bore?  For him, he could not answer it, though Manx, as leader of the Shipping interest, was influential.  The man had to be endured, like other doses in politics.

Dacier did not once think of the great ship-owner’s niece till Miss Constance Asper stepped into her drawing-room to welcome him.  She was an image of repose to his mind.  The calm pure outline of her white features refreshed him as the Alps the Londoner newly alighted at Berne; smoke, wrangle, the wrestling city’s wickedness, behind him.