rooted conviction of Alfred's baseness, and
wept gingerly behind her point-lace-bordered
handkerchief, and bemoaned herself, and
reproached him, and told the two bewildered
young men that, from childhood upwards, she
had been an impulsive, sensitive creature, liable
to be the victim of strong emotion, and totally
deficient in British stolidity and self-repression.
But there was, under all the froth of her
demonstrative affections, a substratum of feeling in
the kindly old woman, which feeling had been
deeply wounded by the disclosure of Alfred's
utter worthlessness. It was not merely the
mortification of finding that she had been
utterly fooled and deceived from the beginning
—though that mortification was keen to a person
who, like Lady Popham, prided herself on
the acuteness of her judgment—but there was
real regret for her protege's unworthy conduct,
and real compassion for the innocent little girl
in whom Jack and Clement earnestly tried to
interest her. "Poverina, poverina!" cried my
lady, wiping her eyes. " C'est touchant. C'est
vraiment touchant. The innocent little fool.
But that Alfred—viper! However, my dear
people, we must hush it up. No esclandre. For
Heaven's sake, no esclandre! You English
people always put everything in the newspapers.
Now, if this story is put in the newspapers, I
shall, tout simplement, expire!"

She was assured that there was no intention
of putting the story into the newspapers; and
then, after a minute or two's reflection, she
undertook to get rid of her latest and most
unfortunate speculation in geniuses, by the simple
process of running away from him! " I shall
go to Vienna," said my lady— " I shall go to
Vienna, and leave a—a-- note for that scelerato
—how handsome he is! Quel dommage! And
meanwhile, until I can start, I shall take to my
bed, and tell my people not to let him pass. A
few lines, you know, and— and a— cheque, I
think. Oh, of course it's wrong, I know;
highly immoral. Don't preach to me, I
implore. It never was of the least use to preach
to me. But the fact is, I was the means of
dragging this birbante out of his obscurity,
and giving him hopes and tastes and
aspirations that——Ah, Dio buono! Yes, yes, there
must be a cheque, and meanwhile I shall go
to bed."

Not the least gratified person at the return
of Walter Charlewood, and the clearing away
of the cloud which had hung over Clement,
was Mr. M'Culloch; and before Jack left
London to return home, his friend and patron
resolved to give a farewell dinner ostensibly in
his honour, to which he invited Clement and
Penelope Charlewood. "I wonder," the old
Scotchman had said to Jack, "I wonder whether
your cousin and Mrs. Saxelby would honour me
with then- presence! I have had the pleasure
of calling on them with you, but I don't like
to seem intrusive. Public people, celebrities
like Miss Bell, get worried a good deal in that
way, I dare say."

Jack, after a word or two with his cousin,
had undertaken to say that she would be very
happy to accept Mr. M'Culloch's proffered
hospitality; and thus it came to pass that the
invitations to dinner at the Hawthorns included
Mabel and her mother.

CHAPTER IX. IS IT TOO LATE?

Mr. M'Culloch's dinner-party consisted of
Clement and Penelope Charlewood, Mrs. Saxelby,
Mabel, and Jack, and a wealthy picture-dealer,
whose acquaintance Mr. M'Culloch had thought
might be useful to the young painter. The
presence of this stranger prevented any allusion to
the recent events which had so nearly concerned
all the rest of the party, and directed the
conversation to general topics. The host exerted
himself successfully to make the evening pass
pleasantly, and Penelope Charlewood quite
captivated the old Scotchman by her keen sharp
wit and shrewd sayings. It was long since
there had been so bright a light in poor
Penny's eye, or so genial a smile on her lips.
And the trouble she had passed through just
served to soften her biting humour, and to give
a touch of gentleness to her manner. Mrs.
Saxelby, in the place of honour at Mr.
M'Culloch's right hand, was all suavity, and
Jack was in his usual state of high spirits and
unclouded good humour. Mabel and Clement
were the most silent of the party. They had
met but once since their interview at the little
house in Barnsbury, and then their meeting had
taken place in the midst of the excitement
consequent on Jack's discovery of Walter. Both
were silent, but in Mabel's face there shone
the reflexion of an inward happiness, while
Clement was grave and preoccupied. He
reproached himself for the words he had been
hurried into saying. His feeling might have
been rendered by the old lines,

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

And, in his judgment, honour required him to
refrain from a suit which could result only in
a humiliating repulse, or—he scarcely admitted
the alternative—in tying Mabel to his fallen
fortunes. But yet as he sat near to her,
listening to her rare sweet words, watching the
quiet modest grace of her movements, and the
pure light that shone in her clear eyes, he felt
that she was so dear to him, that all life without
her looked blank and grey. Nevertheless,
he "loved honour more," and made up his mind
to endure his sorrow manfully.

The preceding evening had been the last of
the season at the Royal Thespian Theatre;
consequently the popular actress was free to enjoy
the sweet breath of Mr. M'Culloch's flowers,
and to sit in his pretty garden in the August
twilight, instead of hurrying away to her
professional duties. The host had had a table
brought on to the lawn after dinner, and sat
sipping his wine in the pleasant air, with much
gusto.

"It's a better smell than the gas-lamps—eh,