"My work!" she repeated.

"It is," he replied, fiercely. "Let us have
no demure acting now. It is your doing. What
a farce! You know well enough that all through
I intended you for myself, until this man came,
when you thought you could do better and
marry your banker. It was vile, base, worldly,
and like you all."

"Never, never!" she said, eagerly. "Such
a thing never was in my mind. I thought you
never cared for me; but——"

Ah, yes," he said, with great contempt, "you
required to be told so in formal words. How
ignorant we are! No matter. I am the victim
at this moment; I am ruined. You have
your fine house and your banker. It's no matter
what becomes of me. O! you will be sorry
for all this one day. You have behaved falsely,
cruelly, heartlessly, and you will repent. I am
a wretched, miserable outcast. I have nothing
to say. As he says, it is done now. You think
I am going to make a vulgar disturbance. No.
I am not. Take your own course. I suppose I
must try and get over it as best I can."

Deep compassion was in her eyes. "I did
not know this; indeed I did not. But this is
all too late now. Believe me, I am innocent.
You know you would never speak. I could not
tell whether ylou cared for me or no. How
could I?"

"And you had no instinct, no wit," he said,
bitterly, "not to see under all that? How blind
we have all been! Never mind now. You
shall have no scandal or unpleasantness;
everything shall be smooth, and you shall go off
with your husband without being troubled.
There; go back, and sit beside him at your
table."

Then comes the breakfast. In turn we have
a speech from Mr. Crozier; and then Mr. Tilney,
taking a great deal of his own wine "to keep
himself up," is in a chronic state of insatiation
of blessings.

And then they go away to the Continent, Mr.
Tilney tells his friends piteously, "only for a
time, you know." The captain is infinitely
relieved as they get off safely; for he has been
disturbed all through the meal with sad
misgivings of some fresh interruption or trouble.

CHAPTER, VIII. THE CAPTAIN IN HIS ELEMENT.

THE "happy pair," as Mr. Tilney always spoke
of them, had been on the Continent more than a
month. He received letters from them
regularly, which he was fond of carrying about in
his pocket, and of pulling out to read to persons
whom he met.

"They are at the Rhigi now. They will be
at Lucerne to-morrow night." "Had a letter
from our travelling friends from Genoa.
Wonderful the way they travel now." With these
he was fond of dropping in upon the captain
about two o'clock, and to that kind old officer,
and in presence of a third influence, he would
read out the closely written fluttering journals
that arrived from Ada Tillotson. The captain
with his face well forward, and hoisting himself
noiselessly on his chair to ease the stiff limb,
listened with many a "Ah! my goodness now!
see that. I declare she writes like a book." Mr.
Tilney, by way of simplifying some idioms which
he thought might confuse the captain, interposed,
without lifting his eyes off the paper, a running
commentary of his own, which his friend
accepted devoutly enough as part of the
correspondence. Thus it seemed to run:

"We came here, my dear father (she always
called him by this name), last night. It is a
wonderful place, all glittering; and as we came
in from the sea at six in the morning—the sea
seemed like molten silver, and so like the scenes
in the opera—I could not conceive anything so
lovely, and the old harbour, and the Italian
shipping, and the mole, and the old gateway
down at the water's edge, and the soldiers and
peasants!"

Mr. Tilney, with his eyes on the letter:
"Ah, Genoa, Genoa! justly called the Queen
of Palaces. A great place once; might have
seen it myself over and over again, if / liked.
We have ranged many lands, but the city for
me, is beautiful Genoa, pride of the sea; is
beautiful Genoa, pride of the sea!"

At the last words only Mr. Tilney looked up
from the letter to the ceiling, lost in reminiscences,
leaving the captain a little confused.

Sometimes the captain received a letter
himself, which took him "a good morning" to
read, and helped him through the early part of
the day very pleasantly. In the evening, Mr.
Tilney might drop in, and the captain would
exhibit his letter with great satisfaction, which,
however, Mr. Tilney put aside with a "Ah,
yes, of course!" as though that was a different
thing; allowing the captain, by a sort of
sufferance, to read it through, but hinting that
he knew its contents beforehand.

It had been, indeed, a charming tour for
them, if peace, joy, and unsurpassed content
could make anything charming. It was new life
to both. That dull passiveness and insensibility
to nature and to the world—which, if
scrutinised too nicely, may turn out a shape of
selfishness—had all gone. In its room had come
an eager curiosity and warm enthusiasm; and
thus together did Mr. and Mrs. Tillotson travel
from town to town, from valley to valley, from
hill to hill, charmed with all. The foreign
gentlemen and ladies noted the thoughtful
Engishman and the golden-haired lady with him
in galleries and churches, who seemed delighted
with all they saw.

But this holiday would only last a short time.
They were coming home; for the great bank,
growing and swelling day by day, required its
nurse and guardian. They were coming home,
having seen all the shows usually seen on the
grand tour nuptial. Mr. Tilney came to the
captain and read him a letter, now from
Marseilles, now from Paris, and finally from
Boulogne. They were to be at home on the next
evening.

The captain had had another visitor very
frequently. Ross would often come in at