Felton, and when the young man told her how
otherwise complete his explanation with Mr.
Felton had been, she felt a degree of satisfaction
in the proof of her power and influence
afforded by this reticence.

The positive injunction which Mr. Felton had
laid upon his nephew aided George's
sensitiveness with respect to Harriet. He felt
convinced that if his uncle had known her, as he
knew her, he would have been satisfied to
confide to her the trouble and anxiety under
which he laboured, and whose origin was
assuming, to George's mind, increasing seriousness
with every day which passed by, without
bringing news of Mr. Felton's son. But he
would not, however he might find relief and
counsel by doing so, discuss with Harriet a
matter which he had been positively forbidden
to discuss with her husband: he could not ask
her secresy without hurting her by an explanation
of Mr. Felton's ill opinion of Routh. So
it happened that these two persons met every
day, and that much liking, confidence, and
esteem existed on the man's part towards the
woman, and yet unbroken silence was maintained
on the subject which deeply engaged the
minds of both. Philip Deane's name was never
mentioned by Harriet, nor did Dallas speak of
Arthur Felton.

So Mrs. Carruthers improved in health.
Mr. Carruthers was very gracious and affable to
his step–son, aud terribly nervous and anxious
about his wife, on whom, if the worthy physician
could have been brought to consent, he would
have kept Dr. Merle in perpetual attendance,
being incapable of recognising the importance
—indeed, almost the existence—of any patient
of that gentleman's, except Mrs. Carruthers
of Poynings. Mr. Felton heard nothing of
his son, and waited, frequently discussing the
subject with Mr. Carruthers and his nephew;
and the bright sweet autumn days went on.
Afterwards, when George reviewed their course
and pondered on the strange and wayward ways
through which his life had lain, he thought of
the tranquillity, the lull, there had been in that
time, with wonder.

The change of scene, the physical effort, a
certain inevitable deadening effect produced by
the lapse of time, more powerful in cases of
extreme excitement than its space would seem to
warrant, had had their effect on Harriet's spirits
and appearance. She looked more like herself,
George thought, when he came to make her his
daily visit. Perhaps he had become more
accustomed to the change he had noted with her
solicitude on his return to London; she was
certainly more cheerful. He did not take
account of the fact that he did not see her in
Routh's company, though his uncle's comment
on her husband's feelings towards her frequently
and painfully recurred to him. Harriet questioned
him frequently about his mother, and
George, full of gratitude for her kindness and
sympathy, spoke freely of her, of his uncle, of
the altered position in which he stood with his
step–father, and of his improved condition and
hopes. There were only two persons of interest
to him whom he did not mention to Harriet.
They were Austin Felton and Clare Carruthers.

"Have you ever been to the Bursaal in the
evening?" he asked Harriet one day, as they
were talking, and looking at the groups of
gaily dressed men and women lounging past the
window where they were seated.

"Yes, I have gone in there once or twice
with Stewart; but I got tired of it very soon,
and I don't want to go again."

"My uncle met an old acquaintance there
last evening," George went on; "he does not
particularly care about it either; but we were
strolling about the gardens until rather late,
and then we went in and had a look at the
ball–room. I had been watching a lady for
some time, out–and–out the best dancer in the
room, when she came up to my uncle and spoke
to him, and I find out she is quite a celebrity
here."

"Indeed," said Harriet, not vehemently
interested.

"Yes, quite," said George; "and, judging
by what my uncle says, I should think she was
a celebrity in New York too. I should like to
show her to you, Mrs. Routh; she is like one
of those impossible women in the American
woods, with clusters of currants made in
carbuncles, and bunches of cherries, in flawless
rubies, in their hair—you know the kind of
thing I mean. I fancy the Phoenix would look
shy about ensuring her wardrobe, and Hancock
feel dubious about matching her diamonds.
Such a twinking, flashing, glittering, coaxing,
flippant mortal I never met in my life. I
wonder if she dresses as gorgeously under the
sunshine as under the gas."

"She has quite taken your fancy, George.
Did Mr. Felton introduce you?"

"Yes. There she stood, looking up in his
face, but I am quite sure seeing me and every
other person in the room at the same time, and
chattering like a Yankee magpie; so my
uncle presented me to—Mrs. P. Ireton
Bernbridge, as he called her, in American fashion.
She was there, with a whole host of people, and
I didn't fancy them, 'ke–inder didn't,' as she
would say, no doubt, and went away as soon as
I could."

"Is she a widow?"

"Yes—at least, I think so; I heard nothing
of P. Ireton."

"She will be cultivating your uncle, or yourself,
George. A handsome, rich young widow,
and an old acquaintance of your uncle's, eh?"

"I don't feel in the least like it, Mrs. Routh,
and I am sure the sparkling, flashing, dashing
lady I met last night would fly at no such
mean quarry. I have rather a notion, too, that
my uncle does not like her."

"Have you? Did he seem displeased at the
meeting?"

"Not exactly displeased—but— I am beginning
to understand him now wonderfully well,
and in some things he is so like my mother.
Now, with her I can always feel whether she