"Philip," said Lady Ashley that evening, with some hesitation in her speech; "Philip—did you—did you notice Mr. Brand—much—to-day?"

The guests had all gone; dinner was over; mother and son were sitting in wicker chairs on the terrace, resting after the fatigues of the day. Sir Philip was smoking a very mild cigarette: he was not very fond of tobacco, for, as the Adairs sometimes expressed it, he "had no small vices." Lady Ashley was wrapped in a white shawl, and her delicate, blue-veined hands were crossed upon her lap in unaccustomed idleness.

"I did notice him," said her son, quietly. "He seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to Miss Adair."

"Oh, Philip, dear, it distressed me so much!"

"Why should it distress you, mother?—it is nothing to us."

"Well, if you feel in that way about it—still, I am grieved for the Adairs' sake. After all, they are old friends of ours. And I had hoped——"

"Our hopes are not often realized, are they?" said Sir Philip, in the gentle, persuasive tones that his mother thought so winning. "Perhaps it is best. At any rate, it is best to forget the hopes that never can be realized."

"Do you think it is really so, Philip? Everyone was talking about his manner this afternoon."

"She was giving him every encouragement," said her son, looking away.

"Such an undesirable match! Poor Lady Caroline!"

"We do not know how things are being arranged, mother. Possibly Lady Caroline and Mr. Adair are favoring an engagement. Miss Adair is hardly likely to act against their will."

"No, she has scarcely resolution enough for that. Then you don't think that they met for the first time this afternoon?"

"Gracious heavens, no!" said Sir Philip, roused a little out of his apparent indifference. "They met quite as old acquaintances—old friends. I suppose the Adairs have renewed the friendship. The properties lie side by side. That may be a reason."

"I am very sorry we asked him here," said Lady Ashley, almost viciously. "I had no idea that he was paying attention to her. I hope there is nothing wrong about it—such a very undesirable match!"

"I don't really know why," said her son, with a forced smile. "Wyvis Brand is a fine, handsome fellow, and the property, though small, is a nice one. Miss Adair might do worse."

"I believe her mother thinks that she might marry a duke."

"And so she might. She is a great beauty, and an heiress." And there was a ring of bitterness in his tone which pained his mother's heart.

"Ah, Philip," she said—not very, wisely—"you need not regret her. 'A fair woman without discretion,' she would not be the wife for you."

"I beg that you will not say that again, mother." He did not turn his face towards her, and his voice was studiously gentle, but it was decided too. "She is, as you say, 'a fair woman,' but she has not shown herself as yet 'without discretion,' and it is hardly kind to condemn her before she has done any wrong."

"I do not think that she behaved well to you, Philip. But I beg your pardon, my son: we will not discuss the matter. It seems hard to me, of course, that you should have suffered for any woman's sake."

"Ah, mother, every one does not see me with your kind eyes," he said, bringing his face round with a smile, and laying his right hand over one of hers. But the smile thinly disguised the pain that lingered like a shadow in his eyes. "Let us hope, at any rate, that Margaret may be happy."

Lady Ashley sighed and pressed his hand. "If you could but meet some one else whom you cared for as much, Philip!" And then she paused, for he had—involuntarily as it seemed—shaken his head, and she did not like to proceed further.

A pause of some minutes followed; and then she determined to change the subject.

"The music went very well this afternoon, I think," she said. "Miss Colwyn was in very good voice. Do you not like her singing?"

"Yes, very much."

"The Watertons were asking me about her. And the Bevans. I fancy she will get several engagements. Poor girl, I hope she will."

Sir Philip threw away the end of his cigarette, and got up rather abruptly, Lady Ashley thought. Without a word he began to pace up and down the terrace, and finally, turning his back on her, he stared at the garden and the distant view, now faintly illumined by a rising moon, as if he had forgotten his mother's very existence. Lady Ashley was surprised. He usually treated her with such marked distinction that to appear for a moment unconscious of her presence was almost a slight. She was too dignified, however, to try to recall his attention, and she waited quietly until her son turned round again and suddenly faced her with an air of calm determination.

"Mother," he said, "I have something important to say."

"Well, Philip?"

"You have often said that you wanted me to marry."

"Yes, dearest, I do wish it."

"I also see the expediency of marriage. The woman whom I loved, who seemed to us as suitable as she is lovely, will not marry me. What shall I look for in my second choice? Character rather than fortune, health rather than beauty. This seems to me the wiser way."

"And love rather than expediency," said his mother quickly.

"Ah!" he drew a long breath. "But we can't always have love. The other requisites are perhaps more easily found."

"Have you found them, Philip?" The mother's voice quivered as she asked the question. He did not answer it immediately—he stood looking at the ground for some little time.

"My mind is made up," he said at last, slowly and quietly; "I know what I want, and I think that I have found it. Mother, I am going to ask Miss Colwyn to be my wife."

If a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet, Lady Ashley could not have been more amazed. She sat silent, rigid, incapable of a reply.

"I have seen something of her, and I have heard more," her son went on, soberly. "She is of sterling worth. She has intellect, character, affection: what can we want more? She is attractive, if not exactly beautiful, and she is good—thoroughly good and true."

"But her connections, Philip—her relations," gasped Lady Ashley.

"It will be easy enough to do something for them. Of course they will have to be provided for—away from Beaminster, if possible. She is an orphan, remember: these are only her half sisters and brothers."

"There is the dreadful stepmother!"

"I think we can manage her. These points do not concern the main issue, mother. Will you receive her as your daughter if I bring Janetta Colwyn here as my wife?"

Lady Ashley had put her handkerchief to her eyes. "I will do anything to please you, Philip," she said, almost inaudibly; "but I cannot pretend that this is anything but a disappointment."

"I have thought the matter well over. I am convinced that she will make a good wife," said the young man; and from his voice and manner Lady Ashley felt that his resolution was invulnerable. "There is absolutely no objection except the one concerning her relations—and that may be got over. Mother, you wish for my happiness: tell me that you will not disapprove."

Lady Ashley got up from her basket chair, and laid her arms round Philip's neck.

"My dear son," she said, "I will do my best. I wish for nothing but your happiness, and I should never think of trying to thwart your intentions. But you must give me a little time in which to accustom myself to this new idea."

And then she wept a little, and kissed and blessed him, and they parted on the most cordial of terms. Nevertheless, neither of them was very happy. Lady Ashley was, as she had said, disappointed in the choice that he had made; and Sir Philip, in spite of his brave words, was very sore at heart.

Janetta, all unconscious of the honor preparing for her, was meanwhile passing some miserable hours. She could not sleep that night—she knew not why. It was the excitement of the party, she supposed. But something beside excitement was stirring in her heart. She tried to give it a name, but she would not look the thing fairly in the face, and, therefore, she was not very successful in her nomenclature. She called it friendly interest in others, a desire for their happiness, a desire also for their good. What made the burning pain and unrest of these desires? Why should they cause her such suffering? She did not know—or, more correctly, she refused to know.

She rose in the morning feeling haggard and unrefreshed. The day was a very hot one; the breeze had died away, and there was not a cloud in the deep blue sky. Julian Brand came in the dog-cart with the groom. He had not seen his father that morning, he said, and he thought that he had gone away, but he did not know. Gone away? Janetta sat down to her work with a heavy heart. It seemed to her that she must speak either to him or to Margaret. He was compromising her friend, and for Margaret's sake she must not hold her peace. Well, it was the day for Miss Adair's singing lesson. When she came that afternoon, Janetta made up her mind that she would say a needful word.

But Margaret did not come. She sent a note, asking to be excused. She had a headache, and could not sing that afternoon.

"She is afraid to come!" said Janetta, passionately, and for almost the first time she felt a thrill of anger against her friend.

Another visitor came, if Margaret did not. About four o'clock, just as Julian was beginning to wonder when he would be fetched away, a thundering peal at the door knocker announced the appearance of Wyvis Brand. Janetta was in the drawing-room putting away some music when he came in. She saw that he glanced eagerly round the room, as if expecting to see someone else—perhaps Margaret Adair—and her heart hardened to him a little as she gave him her hand. Had he come at that hour because Margaret generally took her lesson then?

"How cold you are!" cried Wyvis, holding the little hand for the moment in his own. "On this hot day! How can you manage to keep so cool??"

If his heart had been throbbing and his head burning as Janetta's were just then, he might have known how to answer the question.

"You have come for Julian, I suppose?" she said, a little coldly.

"Yes—in a minute or two. Won't you let me rest for a few minutes after my walk in the broiling sun?"

"Oh, certainly; you shall have some tea, if you like. I am at liberty this afternoon," said Janetta, with a little malice, "as my pupil has just sent me word that she has a headache, and cannot come."

"Who is your pupil this afternoon?" said Wyvis, stroking his black moustache.

"Miss Adair."

He gave her a quick, keen glance, then turned away. She read vexation in his eyes.

"Don't let me trouble you," he said, in a different tone, as she moved towards the door; "I really ought not to stay—I have an engagement or two to fulfill. No tea, thanks. Is Julian ready?"

"In a minute or two I will call him. I want to ask you a question first—if you will let me?"

"All right; go on. That's the way people begin disagreeable subjects, do you know?"

"I don't know whether you will consider this a disagreeable question. I suppose you will," said Janetta, with an effort. "I promised you once to say nothing to my friends about your affairs—about Julian's mother, and I have kept my word. But I must ask you now—does Miss Adair know that you are married?"

There was a moment's pause. They stood opposite one another, and, lifting her eyes to his face, she saw that he was frowning heavily and gnawing his moustache.

"What does that matter to you?" he said, angrily, at last.

She shrank a little, but answered steadily—

"Margaret is my friend."

"Well, what then?"

The color rose to Janetta's face. "I don't believe you knew what you were doing yesterday," she said; "but I knew—I heard people talking, and I knew what people thought. They said that you were paying attention to Miss Adair. They supposed you were going to marry her soon. None of them seemed to know that—that—your wife was still alive. And of course I could not tell them."

"Of course not," he assented, with curious eagerness; "I knew you would keep your word."

"You made Margaret conspicuous," Janetta continued, with some warmth. "You placed her in a very false position. If she thinks, as other people thought, that you want to marry her, she ought to be told the truth at once. You must tell her—yourself—that you were only amusing yourself—only playing with her, as no man has a right to play with a girl," said Janetta, with such vehemence that the tears rose to her great dark eyes and the scarlet color to her cheeks—"that you were flirting, in fact, and that Julian's mother—your wife, Cousin Wyvis—is still alive."