racked his brains to discover some way by
which he could effectually outrage and insult him.
In this mood, he unluckily came face to face with
Mrs. Fermor. Here was the opportunity. She
was the Christian thrown to the lion. She was
not a cold skilled hand that could retort upon
him or repulse him. At the sight of her, the
lecture he had suffered, the mortifications, the
suspicions about Miss Manuel, all came rushing
on him. Here was a fit whipping-post ready to
his hand.

She was in a soft humour. The sense of her
loneliness and the feeling of desertion, was growing
upon her. Perhaps, after all, she had been
thinking, she had not been making allowance.
Perhaps, with a little advance — But Fermor
burst on her: " It seems we are now the talk of
clubs and coffee-rooms, and strange gentlemen
take up the cudgels for you good naturedly, and
say you mean no harm. Cheerful news, eh?
However, that is no matter, as it will soon end."

This made her as defiant as he was; as wounded,
as rebellious, perhaps as vindictive. " As soon
as you please," she said; " perhaps sooner. Do
you wish the servants to hear as well as the
gentlemen in the clubs?"

"This tone won't do," said Fermor, with a
trembling voice. "I've had too much of it.
Most luckily, it is not too late."

During this speech Mrs. Fermor had thought
of a famous retort. She would not have repressed
it for the world. " I am glad," she said, her
little heart beating fast, " that there are gentlemen
who take up my cause and have remarked
the treatment I am subject to. I am very glad."

"Gentlemen or no gentlemen," said he, with a
heart beating as fast, " these goings on must be
stopped, and stopped promptly. As the beginning,
I require peremptorily that you do not exhibit
yourself at this foolish show of Lady Laura's.
In fact, I shall see that you do not go."

"And what if I do go?" said Mrs. Fermor,
with sparkling eyes.

"We shall see," said Fermor, scornfully.

"And we shall see," repeated Mrs. Fermor,
as scornfully.

Yet only a few minutes before, during that
interval of softness, she was thinking whether,
after all, it would not be better to go to him and
make this little sacrifice, as a sort of opening to
reconciliation. But now that was all over for
ever and ever. If she was to die she would go.

CHAPTER XXXVI. FOWLER AND BIRD.

Poor Mrs. Fermor! All helpless, and cast
entirely among " gentlemen friends," she had no
one to rely upon or look to for aid or counsel.
Men, after all, with their free manners, were
true beings. Not so faithless, she thought, as
women. A hot spirit was working in her veins,
a strange excitement, and pride was carrying her
forward in this path. She had no time to think.
Everything seemed to conspire cruelly to hurry
her into that crooked course. Thus she gave
directions that Mr. Romaine was not to be let
in; for she had begun to shrink from the calm
collected air of direction and authority which he
had latterly begun to assume. When he sauntered
up the stairs, in defiance of these orders, her face
flushed, and she drew back. "I am not at
home," she said, excitedly. " I don't want to see
people. I said that you were not to come in."

"A girl feebly tried to stop me," he said,
"but I saw the lie on her lips. Surely I know
that you are always at home at this hour. What
is the use of this little artifice with me?"

"It is very wrong," she went on, passionately,
for she felt her own helplessness. " You think
you can do as you please here. I won't permit
it," she added, with a little stamp; " you come
here too often, and I have told you so."

"Perhaps so!" he said, looking at her with
genuine astonishment, as it seemed to her. " I
am sure I do. I must try and mend, though.
You tell us these harsh truths a little roughly.
You should break the fall, and prepare us.
Last day you were kinder. Well! it is only one
more like all the rest!" And, taking his hat
again, added, " Good-by."

There was such a wounded hurt air in his
manner, that her heart smote her a little.

"I always say more than I mean," she said.
"I have no choice of words. You understand
me, I know. I am worried and miserable. No
one stands by me, or, I believe, cares for me."

"A discovery!" he said, bitterly. "But that's
the old song from the beginning of the world.
Who cares for me, I should like to know? Who
has ever cared? I have given up looking for
that sort of article. Only I did suppose," he
went on, excitedly, "like one of the great dolts
which all men are, that you had a sort of toleration
for me — a good nature, a sympathy for the
poor rough creature who has had his troubles,
and whom you encouraged, I say, for some purpose
of your own, into a dream that there was
something like heart left on the earth. For
a moment I believed in you, Mrs. Fermor! I
supposed that you would not descend to the
tricks and deceits of other women."

"Tricks and deceits?" she repeated.

"Using me," he went on, more excited still,
"for the virtuous end of stirring up the slumbering
fires of his affection. Oh, of course!" he
said, "I am taking a liberty in making these
speeches. But it is the truth."

"You do me injustice, indeed you do," she
said. " I never dreamed of such a thing."

She felt, in penitential confusion, that she had
behaved harshly — coarsely even. She would have
done anything for an opportunity to show how
sorry she was. " Sit down," she said, " won't
you? If you go away at once, I shall know that
you are offended."

"Offended?" he said. "No. It is more in
sorrow than in anger — as men go away in the
novels. And yet I don't know what to make
of you," he said, sitting down. "I ought to go.
And with it all I don't hate you, as I ought to."

She laughed and tossed her head, as any other