Once more, guest night at the college. A good many guest nights had passed since the first. The thoughtful and the curious no longer came; they were not missed by Hilarie and her friends at the place about which there had been at first so much discussion and derision. A college which taught nothing, and was only a place of culture, and consolation, and rest, and good breeding—a mere establishment for reminding women perpetually of their very highest functions and duties—was sure to excite derision. Meanwhile, it went on doing its own work, and nobody derided any longer. This is the way of the world, and it is like one of the three—nay, four, things which the Proverbial philosopher found too wonderful for him—things which he knew not. A man proposes to found, or establish, or create, something new—something which will, perhaps, cause changes small or great in the current order and the current talk. It is immediately fastened upon and he is held up to derision. Nothing is so truly ridiculous as a thing which is new; besides, it makes admirable "copy." If the man kicks out in return, he is jumped upon again. The world is then called upon to observe how completely the creature is squelched, how he lies flat and lifeless on the arid sand. Presently the world observes that the man, so far from being flat and lifeless, is going on just as if there had been no jumping at all; he bears no apparent mark of bruises, no bones are broken, there are no patches of diachylum on his head; he just proceeds quietly with his plan. Then comes another but a fainter sound of derision, because, when people do get hold of a good thing to worry, they like to keep at it. But the dead man, twice killed, goes on, without paying any attention. Then silence falls. It is unwise to let the world understand that the man you have just killed is going about alive and quite unhurt, and that the theory you have covered with contempt is flourishing like a vigorous vine, already bearing blossoms and rich with promise of purple clusters.

"Yes," said Hilarie, "my simple college is going on; we are quite full. We teach nothing except the true functions of woman, and her place in the human comedy. We admit all those who have to work. Here they learn that work for money and a livelihood is a kind of accident for woman. For man it is necessary; his nature makes him crave for activity. For woman it is an accident, which belongs to our imperfect social system. She ought not to work for pay. And in the case of many women, perhaps most, it degrades and lowers them, because it turns them from what should be the main object of their lives. In this place we warn, and here we daily strive to hold before them the necessity of keeping before themselves a standard. They must never lose sight of the fact that woman is the priestess of civilization. We do our best to prevent our girls from being degraded by the unhappy accident of having to work for wages. All women's work should be work for love."

"But it is said that you pauperize them by taking them in for nothing."

Hilarie laughed. "If the gift is a gift of love, repaid by love, what harm? But there is a rule about payment, and nobody knows except myself who pays and who does not. They come when they like; they go when they like. It is a college in the old sense of the word, not the new—a place of residence."

She left her guests and spoke to Molly. "I have asked my cousin Humphrey to come," she said. "Will you give him an answer to-night?"

"I thought I would wait to see how he would receive——"

"Yes; you told me. It is a most wonderful story, Molly. But I do not believe that it will be allowed to go beyond those who know it at present. I do not believe that he will ever be told this story at all. If he were, I know very well how he would behave. There is another reason, Molly dear; you will understand presently, when I show you a letter. Take him into the library, when the people are going away. Do not answer him until I come to you. I promise you, Molly, that after I have shown you a certain paper, you will thank God that your doubts and your temptations were all removed."

"But if he were to go through this ordeal? It is a trial that would prove the noblest nature."

"It is. But there is another ordeal. Will you trust me?"

"Why, Hilarie! If I am to begin by distrusting you!"

Dick was present, and had brought his fiddle, on which he presently discoursed, to the joy of everybody except his distant cousin.

Later on Molly led Humphrey to "sit out" in the library, where two or three other couples were already occupied in the same selfish evasion of duty.

The young man was in a most ill temper—perhaps on account of Dick's presence—— He made no pretence at concealing this ill temper.

"I have every reason to complain," he said. "You avoid me; you will not answer my letters."

"I am waiting to give you your final answer."

"You gave that long ago."

"I did not. I have told you all along that I was not certain whether the thing would tend to your happiness or my own. Above all, I refused to have any concealments."

"This objection to concealment is a new thing. Before, you consented."

"No; I never did consent. I have always told you that I would not be hidden away, like a thing to be ashamed of."

"And I have always told you that my only reason was respect for my mother's prejudices."

"Let me have my own prejudices, too; and I mean to have them respected."

"You know that I love you, Molly."

"That is no reason why you should insult me. If I am ever married, it must be openly, and in the sight of the world. I think I should ask my relations to be present. You would like to meet the parish clerk, and the pew-opener, and the ragged bankrupt. Don't use bad language, Sir Humphrey. Poor and lowly they may be, but perhaps—I'm sure I don't know—they are virtuous as well."

"I don't mind what you say, Molly."

"Then there are the Haverils."

"The rich people! The man called upon me the other day, and talked conundrums. What have you got to do with them?"

"They are my cousins. I am a great deal with them just now."

"Oh! Is that what makes you so infernally independent?"

"Shall I become the heiress of millions, or shall I be hidden away in a box by a husband who is ashamed of his wife? I have this choice."

"Oh! Their heiress! If they will do that! But have you told them of your engagement?"

"I am not engaged."

"Don't be silly, Molly. How can you refuse what I offer you? Why did the man call on me, then?"

"Did he call? What did he tell you?"

"He talked about some tremendous secret—talked about my mother. I thought he meant you and the engagement. Then he told me—which was a most curious thing—that if I followed the wishes of my mother, I should have as much money as I want. Wishes of my mother! Why, if I told her that I was engaged to a lady named Pennefather, she would ask what your county was, and with whom you were connected, and where your people's property might lie. And if I said—you know—why, it would be a case of cutting me off with a shilling. Yet that respectable Dives went on talking about my mother's wishes."

"Perhaps you did not understand him. At all events, he could not mean my engagement, because I am not engaged. This is the tenth time that I have reminded you of that fact, Sir Humphrey."

"My mother would certainly like me to back out—I mean, not to go on."

"Pray do back out."

"I believe you want to take up with that detestable cad—the man you call Dick—loathsome worm!"

"You are doing your very best to be pleasant this evening, and to ingratiate yourself! All the world are cads, are they not? except a small class. But it is quite true. Dick wants me to marry him."

"You'd better, then, and go off on the tramp with him."

"Perhaps I shall. But now, Humphrey, just to come back to ourselves. You continually insult my people—the class to which I belong—whenever you open your lips to speak. You have nothing but contempt for the people who work for their living, to whom I belong, and the people outside your own little circle. What do you want to marry me for? To make me happy by having to listen to this continual flood of contempt?"

"Because, Molly"—the young man's artificial smile vanished and his pince-nez dropped—"because you are unlike everybody I know. None of the girls that I know are in the least like you. It pleases me to see you get indignant in defence of cads. It is like coming into a different atmosphere. I like to feel like coming down into another class. When we are married, I mean to go on living with my mother and her set, and to keep you apart—don't call it concealment—in some cottage away from the West End."

"And my own people?"

"Well, of course you won't have them to your house, I suppose. You can go and see some of them, if you like. You can't possibly want to see all——"

"And my old friend Dick?"

Humphrey turned red; he lost his repose; he flushed a vulgar red.

"You shall not associate with that abominable cad, Molly. I shall forbid it altogether. You must promise——"

"When I promise anything—perhaps——"

"Then you know, Molly, you are soothing to the nerves. After seeing a bad picture, or hearing a bad piece of music, or listening to the cheerfulness of that—that BEAST they call Dick, only to watch you consoles, and to talk with you restores."

"I am glad to have some qualities, in spite of my birth."

"You have risen above that misfortune, Molly. If you would only refuse to know these people——"

"Certainly not."

"Give me your promise, Molly."

She rose. "Well, at all events, I understand exactly what you mean. If you are so good as to marry me, I am to be hidden away; I am to serve as a soothing syrup for shattered nerves; I am to be an antidote to bad music; I am to be ashamed of my own people, and to give up my old friends. That is understood, is it not?"

"We exchange sacrifices—mine the sacrifice of marrying beneath me; yours, that of giving up an ignoble troop of relations."

To plain persons every word that this girl had spoken would have been a clear announcement of her decision. To this young man no such intention was conveyed. Still in the fulness of his self-conceit, the sacrifice he himself proposed in actually marrying a girl with such family connections seemed so enormous, while the prospect of becoming his wife seemed to him so dazzling, that he was totally unable to understand any hesitation. Molly was whimsical; she did not like to surrender her independence. He liked her the better for it. No meek submissive maiden, however lovely, would be able to command that sacrifice. And, besides, there was that strange magic about the girl's face and eyes and voice, that in her presence, as has been explained already, the young man's mind was full of yearnings after transports unspeakable—after the Flowery Way, where the dancers are, with the castanets and the champagne and raptures that even the newest Art cannot bestow.

"Humphrey," she said, "suppose that in a moment—all in a moment—the things you value most in the world should vanish?"

"My Art? My genius?"

"No; not such genius as you may possess. That is not what you value most. I mean your birth and rank and position in the world. Suppose that were to vanish suddenly away?"

"You talk nonsense."

"I say, suppose it were to vanish suddenly away—suppose you were to become—say—one of my cousins—born like them——"

"Molly, don't waste time in talking nonsense."

"Well, perhaps—— Oh, here is Hilarie."

The library was now deserted, save for these two, when Hilarie appeared at the door. Her face, always grave, was now stern. Humphrey saw the look on her face and coloured, conscience-stricken. With her came his other cousin, also looking grave.

"Molly dear," said Hilarie, "has Sir Humphrey been pressing you?"

The young man became confused and agitated. He understood.

"He has. He wants me to promise to go into hiding with a secret marriage. He is unable to understand that the sacrifice could not be compensated even by his society."

Hilarie turned to Sir Humphrey. "I asked you here to-night," she said, "in order to arrange this little scene. Molly, you can read this letter."

Molly read it, and looked up from the page into the shamefaced cheeks of Humphrey.

"I—I—I must go," said the double lover. "Good night, Molly."

"No, sir. Not before Molly has read the letter."

Richard moved a step towards the door.

Molly read it, and looked up amazed. She read it again, and her cheek flamed. And a third time. Then she returned the letter to Hilarie.

"Wretch!" she said.

Since Hilarie used the same word to express the same idea, there is no doubt that the dictionary ought to have a special line on this meaning of the word "wretch."

"Do you understand it, Molly?"

"There can be no doubt about it, Hilarie. Won't you make him go?"

Hilarie pointed to the door contemptuously, as one dismisses a messenger or a boy; not in the tragic vein at all, but by a little gesture of her forefinger. Dick threw the door open with a gesture of command.

Humphrey obeyed, with an effort at preserving some appearance of dignity. To be found out under such circumstances, to be exposed in such a manner, to be ordered off the premises so contemptuously, would make the proudest of men leave the room with the appearance of ignominy.

"Molly, my dear," said Hilarie, "when you think of the man and what he is, you will never regret him."

She laid her head upon Hilarie's shoulder with a deep, deep sigh.

"One doesn't like a man making love to somebody else at the same time. But I dare say I shall get over that. And then—oh, my dear Hilarie, it is such a relief! I cannot tell you what a relief. For, you know, sometimes I seem to think that I did consent."

"And as for my other cousin here?"

"Dick," said Molly, "the fiddle is very light to carry. I shan't feel the weight of it—not a bit. Are you satisfied, Dick?"