"Whatever you like; you will settle it
for me."

"Well," he said, carelessly, "I am for Petrarch
and Laura. I can get this made for myself. It
will suit me famously."

"Anything you like," said she, still answering
Miss Manuel. "Choose for me."

"Well, I do choose," he said, "But, first,
what does Miss Manuel say?"

With a helpless despairing look she turned
from one to the other.

"What can I say?" she said; "I know
nothing of what you mean. It cannot be
serious—-" And she almost wrung her hands.

"It is serious," said Mrs. Fermor, looking at
her fixedly; "real and earnest. Childish days
are over, Miss Manuel. I feel more and more
like a woman every day. I want to be a woman
of the world. I am panting to begin. A real,
cold, heartless woman of the world, that has
got rid of foolish affection, and of love and
scruples, and all that old absurdity. I must
begin to live now," added the poor little Mrs.
Fermor, with a piteous desperation, and almost
with tears starting to her eyes, "if ever I am to
live!"

"And let it be my task, O divinest Laura,"
said Mr. Romaine, starting up into a theatrical
attitude, "to teach thee this new art. Thy
Petrarch is indifferently skilled in worldly
politics, and will be a guide, philosopher, and
friend. There, Miss Manuel. Not so bad, I think.
We shall make a sensation in our new parts at
Mamma Fermor's."

"No, no," said Pauline; "this is all folly, mere
childish folly. You do not see the danger.
Come! come!" she half whispered to Mrs.
Fermor, "ah! come with me. You won't refuse
me that little favour? I implore you. I have
something to say to you. Come out and
drive."

Mrs. Fermor broke from her. "That is all over
now. I shall not go to you, nor do I want you
to come to me. I know you. You have cured
me, indeed."

"I tell you it will be ruin, misery, degradation,"
said Pauline, frantically.

He caught the last words. "What, you
rehearsing too, Miss Manuel?" he said, with a
sneer. "Has Lady Laura secured you, too!
How strongly cast we shall be. But come,
no tampering with the lovely Laura. I know
what Miss Manuel is whispering. She has
played the same part for me this morning
already."

"I dare say!" said Mrs. Fermor, with cheeks
kindling afresh. "I have lived but a short time,
but I have learnt enough to see what the
world is."

"Well! I started," said he, "with the
assumption that every friend was false, every truth
(that is every worldly truth) a lie, every profession
a humbug. You have now convinced me that it
was so. Sometimes you meet with an agreeable
surprise, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred
I am right. You must come to school to me,
my dear Mrs. Fermor."

There was a passion and a tragic intensity
in all that the two women spoke and did,
that would have mystified any one else. Mr.
Romaine knew what was on foot. For him
the situation was delightful. Mrs. Fermor,
so full of indignant warmth, her cheeks glowing
with wounded pride and defiance; Miss
Manuel piteously imploring, both in looks and
voice.

Her last hope was to be alone with this young
creature; then she could tell her all, and make
even an abject submission. She would do
anything to stop this horrible mischief, which now
seemed to her to be spreading every hour like
some virulent plague. But Romaine seemed to
understand this also.

"This is one of my idle lounging evenings," he
said, looking at her steadily; "for a wonder, I
have nothing to do. Business, thank God, I
never dirty my fingers with. But there are a
hundred little gnats which come buzzing at me,
nearly as bad as business— notes and the like.
But this afternoon I am free. Come, Mrs. Fermor,
shall we order tea? Let us drown our cares
in a cheerful bowl."

Mrs. Fermor flew to comply with his wish with
an artificial alacrity— still looking at Miss
Manuel. The other saw there was no hope, and
went away full of sadness, something like despair.
Never was there such a changed being. She had
sprung back over the wide crevasse that lay
between her and the old Eastport times, and was
the gentle loving upright Pauline again. What
she had been doing seemed to be the blackest of
crimes, a spotted leprosy. "O, what am I to
do!" she said aloud, in her carriage. "And I can
do nothing."

At this moment she saw Fermor sauntering
along moodily. This was now the shape in which
most people saw him. In an instant she had
stopped her carriage by the pathway, and called
to him. He was at her window in a moment.
This was on the side next the Park rails.

"O, Captain Fermor!" she said, and he
remarked her excited manner, "I have just been to
your house, and I want to speak to you, to tell
you—- And yet," she added, striking her dress
passionately, "I don't know how I am to begin
— or where—- But you will grant me this one
favour. I know— I am sure you will."

The old complacent smile was rising on the
Fermor lips. Passers-by, reading his face, thought
what a pleasant little interview was going on at
the window of that little brougham boudoir.

"Anything you wish," he said. "You have
only to ask. Come, what is it?"

"You don't understand," she said, in the same
passionate way. "Something must be done, and
done at once, or we know not what mischief may
come. I am accountable for it all! I have been
guilty and wicked; but I declare solemnly I knew
not what I was doing. You will be generous,
and save me, I know. Fly! leave this country!