was going on. She has ruined and
destroyed us."

"But surely not," said Conway, stopping,
"all in such a short time! It seems
incredible! A fine estate shrivelled to
nothing in this manner. Are you certain
about all this? Has all been fair?"

"You know Bolton?—a hard-headed,
honest fellow, that speaks plainly. He says
a fortnight, at the outside, is all we can
hope to keep afloat for. Then there will
be something disgraceful, unless—unless—
we can be helped. Some one wrote from
here. The whole place was talking of it,
the letter said. For God's sake, do what
you can for us, and save the family. Put
aside that other girl."

"What other girl?" said Conway.

"Oh, that was said also; there was some
low girl here that was in the way, and had
got some pledge from you."

"False! A low vulgar story."

"I knew it. At any rate, we must put
by romance and that sort of thing; for we
are on a precipice, George, and you must
make a sacrifice to save the family."

"My life," said Conway, "has hitherto
been something of a sacrifice, so I may as
well continue it."

Mr. Conway was cautious enough, even
to his father, and said nothing of the
proposal he had received that morning. There
was no reason why he should not win all
the honours of self-sacrifice by resignation.
The father was still a little disturbed about
"the other girl," and asked doubtfully who
she was. His son took a pleasure in
enlarging on her praises, perhaps to
indemnify himself. Was he not now to be
sold into captivity by a combination of
dealers, as it were? "One of the finest
natures: the quickest and most natural you
ever heard of. No one could dream that
such could be found in a place like this.
Yet must I treat her in this way?"

"What! that man's daughter? Oh, I
dare say she is well used to this. These
places are like garrison towns. My dear
George, think—a man of your abilities and
prospects!"

"Fine prospects, indeed, that have
caused me to be led into the market.
Look at that, father, and see how just you
have been to that noble girl!"

He showed him the letter he had
received that morning. His father read it
with disquietude.

"But, in God's name, don't let me hear
that you are irrevocably pledged. You
said," he added, appealingly, "you were to
consult me."

"Yes," said Conway, beginning to row
in his hesitation; "but I was sure you
would not——"

"You were always truthful and straightforward,
George, and would not act on
empty pretences. That I know. You
would not pretend to consult me, having all
the while made up your mind to act
independently of me."

When father and son boarded the yacht,
one of the sailors, just arrived from shore,
put into Conway's hand some letters brought
from the club. By a sort of reaction in this
rather uncertain mind, the transaction had
begun to have a very ugly air, something in
the nature of trafficking or sale. This was not
surely what he was to live for; and of a sudden
it flashed upon him that it was scarcely
honourable, or gentlemanly, or "lordly," to
pay his father's debts by a marriage. It
seemed akin to slave-market principles. No
one had been so bitter, so scathing, in his
branding of those mothers who dragged
their daughters to the bazaars and
sale-rooms of fashionable life, and sold them to
the best bidders. Here was he doing the
same with his own precious person.

"This is a very serious thing, father,"
he said, warmly; "and I should have time
to consider. It sounds shabby and mean
to take this poor girl's fortune to benefit
ourselves."

"There is no time, George. That is the
worst of it. Thinking it over will not
make the matter better or worse, clearer
or more obscure. But, I say, it is time
for you to put away all this hair-splitting
and metaphysics. I have no patience with
it. I tell you, there's not an hour to lose.
Act like other men of sense, and men of the
world. What have you got there?"

Conway was reading one of his letters,
which he had torn open. It was from
Jessica. Never did events seem so to
compete, as it were, for the guidance of this
petted gentleman.

DEAR MR. CONWAY,—One of my wretched
bursts of temper made me write as I did
this morning. I have, indeed, no title to
speak to you as I have done. Be generous,
and forgive. Oh, what mean, unworthy
motives you must impute to me! I could
sink for shame and confusion. And yet I
meant well; indeed I did. It was of your
interest I was thinking, not of my own. Now
I must bear the penalty. And do what
I can, you must think that mean pitiful
jealousy of her was at the bottom of all.
I know I have forfeited your esteem and
respect for ever, and that nothing will