a point of it he might have had files of
young ladies of good birth and condition
drawn up for his inspection; a lane of
rank and beauty down which he might walk
and choose. But nothing could be made
of the creature, though with unwearied
perseverance they tried him with everything.
He gave them credit for cleverness, owning
that with a surprising instinct they had
divined some of his tastes. Nothing could
be made of him. He went about in an
undecided fashion, half dissatisfied, half
seeking for that philosopher's stone of the
ideal soul above all the dross and
imperfection of this world, which, if really found,
would, by the fatal blight of familiarity
and restlessness, in a short time be found
unsatisfactory.

In every circle is to be found this being,
who indeed, as it were, drives "a good
trade" in the business, the good-looking
"misunderstood one," who meets now
and again one that can understand him
a little, who is always in the end turning
out a deception. Thus he has to
pass on to another. In his early stages
such a young man was Mr. Conway,
but he gradually worked himself free of
such affectation, though it took a long,
long time. When urged to go into
politics, the same nicety and hesitation
pursued him. No party was up to his
ideal: "the representation of a vast number
of fellow-creatures seemed an awful trust,
from which a man might shrink." At
least he must try and fit himself for the
solemn duty; and so the time, and worse,
the opportunity, passed by. Thus with the
many advantageous alliances that were
proposed to him. That, too, was an awful
trust, alas! not to be laid down, as could
be the parliamentary one. But what
distinguished him from others, and saved him
from the category of "fop," "ridiculous
stuck-up fellow," was, that all this was
conscientious and genuine. It would have
worn off like bad plating but for a calamity
that really was to colour his whole life.

The present Lord Formanton was twice
married, as will be seen by turning to the
great Golden Book. His first wife, Mr.
Conway's mother, was one of the most charming
of women: sweet and amiable,
charitable and good, as it were savouring the
whole household with a delicate fragrance
of simplicity, which is known and but
to be described as "goodness." She was
very young when married, and when Mr.
George Conway was a youth, really looked
like his sister. Her husband, a good-
natured, rather foolish little peer, always
fussy, but credulous, was busy with a
hundred little trifles in the day, which, through
the magnifier of a dull simplicity which
never left his eye a moment, were enlarged
to vast proportions.

They made a very happy trio. There
was a softness and sweetness about her
which was her special charm. The young
worldling, her son, became natural, soft,
gentle, and loving, when with her. Being
with her, he thought education, teaching,
and reading were all in her gentle face.
She cared as much for him.

Conway had a friend a good deal older
than himself, for whom he had a sort of
romantic admiration, and with whom he
interchanged a good deal of his epicureanism
and scepticism, and whom he would
force his friends to admire rapturously.
"I know no type of chivalry like Rochester,"
he would say; "he is the noblest,
most unselfish fellow in the world: gentle
as a woman, brave as a lion. He was the
first who really said, 'Go, poor fly,' which
that snivelling Sterne only imagined his
Toby saying." This Rochester was a tall,
slightly stooped man, a little grizzled, with
a soft voice and eye. His gentle mother,
Mr. Conway insisted, should appreciate and
admire this hero, and she would have
obliged him in a far more difficult thing
than that. But why dwell on that marvel
of stupid blindness, when all the town
was looking on and smiling, and shaking
its head? It duly prophesied, and saw its
prophecy fulfilled. Lord Formanton and
his son had gone away for a short voyage in
a yacht which the most chivalrous of men
had insisted upon lending; and Rochester
had been conjured and implored, as he was
a chivalrous man, to look after the dear
mother whom they were to leave behind
for a week only. The type of chivalry
wrung his friend's hand, and with a
certain reluctance, as though he were making
a sacrifice, promised solemnly to do what
was asked. Then came the nine days'
wonder, the inquiries, the mystery, the
telegraphing, and the "I saw it all along."
When husband and son came rushing home,
they found their house empty, their hearth
desolate. The death of the erring wife
soon followed.

In Mr. George Conway this blow caused
a surprising change. He could not at first
believe it. It was more likely that words
had failed of their meaning, and men gone
mad. Nature, life, religion, must have
turned upside-down, if such a terrible