The Dormer-Smiths arrived in London early in November, and May joined them almost immediately. Her aunt was delighted to find May looking remarkably well.

"Some good has come of her vegetating in Oldchester," said Pauline to her husband. "Her complexion is radiant. Also I think her figure has improved. If she would but consent to have her stays taken in! Smithson could manage it half an inch at a time; and might easily get her waist down to eighteen inches. But there is that lamentable touch of self-indulgent apathy about May! However, she has really a great deal of charm; and, in spite of all the drawbacks connected with poor Augustus's unfortunate marriage, she looks thoroughbred."

The two little boys, Harold and Wilfred, had returned from their sojourn in a farm-house so much strengthened that their father seriously talked of sending them into the country altogether for a couple of years. Even Mrs. Dormer-Smith, although unwilling to relinquish her character of chronic invalid, confessed that Carlsbad had done her good. In fact, the whole family returned to London in improved health and spirits. A great many "nice people" were to be in town for the winter; and the excuse of May's presence, and the assistance of May's allowance, would enable Pauline to enjoy society, and at the same time to satisfy that singular worldly conscience of hers with the sense of duty fulfilled.

There was a little disappointment at Mr. Bragg's absence from England. But even here Mrs. Dormer-Smith had the not inconsiderable consolation of knowing that if he were far from May's attractions, he was also far from those of Constance Hadlow. And she more than ever rejoiced at that providential interposition in the interests of the Cheffington family which had kept Mr. Bragg away from Glengowrie. Another symptom which filled Aunt Pauline with complacent hopes, was May's newly developed interest in Mr. Bragg, and her eager willingness to talk about his Spanish tour. Pauline was inclined to attribute something of this improved state of mind to Mrs. Dobbs's influence; and confessed to herself that the old woman was doing all she could to compensate the House of Cheffington for the injury done to it by the disastrous mÉsalliance.

Mrs. Dormer-Smith's cheerfulness at this time would have been absolutely unclouded but for the dread hanging over her about her brother. She had given May to understand that the rumours spread by Valli and others were based on error. And she even conveyed the idea to her niece (although scrupulously abstaining from explicit falsehood) that Captain Cheffington himself had denied those rumours in private communications to her and Frederick. But the fact was that Augustus had remained inflexibly silent. The Dormer-Smiths knew nothing of him. And so completely had he dropped out of the society of all with whom they were likely to consort, that a doubt sometimes crossed Pauline's mind as to whether her brother were still living or not.

Meanwhile, every week May received a letter from Owen, forwarded by Mrs. Dobbs. The latter had restricted the correspondence to one letter a week on each side. Owen wrote very joyously. His work was easy—too easy, he said; and he was constantly seeking opportunities to be useful to his employer. Mr. Bragg he pronounced to be an excellent master: clearheaded in his commands, and reasonable in his exactions. He seemed to approve of his secretary so far; and although he was rather taciturn, and not prone to encourage sanguine expectations, yet Owen began to have good hope that Mr. Bragg would not turn him adrift when the three months' engagement should be at an end.

May now became decidedly more popular in society than she had been during the height of the season. Happiness, like sunshine, beautifies common things; and the new brightness of her outlook on it was reflected by the world around her. That feeling which she had expressed in writing to her grandmother—the forlorn feeling of a child who, in the midst of some gay spectacle, wearily cries to go home—had disappeared. She knew that when the curtain should fall on the puppet-show in Vanity Fair, her own true love was waiting to welcome her.

Sometimes she speculated on how Aunt Pauline would take the revelation of her attachment to Owen Rivers. That she should have had any doubt on the subject proved her ignorance of Aunt Pauline's views. Mrs. Dormer-Smith would not for the world have expressed to May any gross or sordid sentiments about marriage. She had not the slightest idea that she entertained any such herself! But, as she had long ago said, there are many things—never put into words—which "girls brought up in a certain monde learn by instinct." Now in that kind of instinct May was greatly deficient.

May reflected that her aunt had spurned Theodore Bransby's proposal on the avowed ground of his being "nobody." And she understood—or thought she understood—that Aunt Pauline accorded a tangible existence only to such persons as could be proved by genealogical records to have had a certain number of great-grandfathers. Now, thus considered, Owen was very undeniably and solidly "somebody." He was poor, certainly; but how often had Aunt Pauline mingled her plaintive regrets with Mrs. Griffin's about the increasing worship of Mammon which vulgarized London society! And although Aunt Pauline sometimes showed a deference for wealth which was rather puzzling in the face of these utterances, yet May observed that her personal liking and admiration were given on very different grounds. Witness her regard for Constance Hadlow!

Mrs. Dormer-Smith even kept up an intermittent correspondence with that young lady. Constance's letters were precisely of the kind which Mrs. Dormer-Smith delighted in—budgets of social gossip selected with unerring tact. Constance had returned to Oldchester, but she did not spend many consecutive weeks in her parents' house, being invited to visit among "the Élite of the county aristocracy," as Mrs. Simpson phrased it. Miss Hadlow had, in fact, achieved what might be called, all things considered, a brilliant social position. Her visit to Glengowrie had been a great success. She had made a conquest of the duchess; and also—though that was comparatively of small consequence—of the duke. Mrs. Griffin was charmed that her protÉgÉe had done her so much honour; and promised to take her into society the following season, if Canon and Mrs. Hadlow would give her leave to come to town. Indeed, Mrs. Griffin began seriously to revolve in her mind whether she could not contrive to marry Charley Rivers's grand-daughter, and secure her a fine establishment. Mrs. Griffin was proud of her achievements in that line, which, though few, were brilliant. Like a certain famous Italian singing-master, who was wont in his old age to decline unpromising pupils on the ground that it was not worth his while to make seconde donne, Mrs. Griffin practised only the higher branches of matchmaking; and refused to fly her falcons at anything under twenty thousand a year—or a peerage.

What made Miss Hadlow's letters particularly interesting to Mrs. Dormer-Smith at this time, was that the former was frequently staying in the neighbourhood of Combe Park, and occasionally met Lord Castlecombe and Lucius, whom she reported to be constantly ailing—as, indeed, he had been since before his brother's death. But his state did not seem to inspire any immediate apprehension. And Constance even said a word now and then about "creaking wheels," and intimated her belief that Mr. Lucius Cheffington would probably outlive many more robust-looking persons.

But it was not only these polite chronicles which kept the Dormer-Smith household informed as to the doings of Oldchester people. Mrs. Dobbs, of course, wrote frequently to her grandchild. The saddest news which she had to give May was the continuous and rapid decline of Mr. Bransby's health. Theodore was still away from home, Mrs. Dobbs wrote, and she commented severely on his heartless neglect of his father. She had learned through Mrs. Simpson that old Martin Bransby showed great anxiety for his son's return; and it was reported that he had caused a letter to be written, telling Theodore that he desired to speak with him, and urging him to come home without delay.

In the first days of December the end came. Martin Bransby died—rather suddenly at the last—and his eldest son was not with him. On being telegraphed to he arrived in Oldchester with the utmost possible despatch—but too late to see his father alive.

"People are very sorry for the widow and her children," wrote Mrs. Dobbs; "for it's beginning to be said now that they're left rather badly off, and that the bulk of everything will go to Theodore. I don't know any facts, one way or the other; but I do know that foolish folk cackle louder over a grave than almost anywhere else. So we may hope things are not so bad with that pretty, gentle woman as Oldchester gossip makes out."

One of May's first thoughts on reading this letter was, "How grieved Owen will be!" She grieved herself for the kindly old man who had always been good to her, and for the grief of those who loved him. And she incurred a mild rebuke from her aunt by appearing at a dinner party that evening with pale cheeks and red eyelids.

Contrary to Mrs. Dobbs's hope, it turned out that the gossip had for once been correct. Martin Bransby's affairs were left in a strange entanglement. There were many debts, and, as it seemed, very little money to meet them. People inquired how he had got rid of the handsome property left him by his father. He had not got rid of it in the ordinary sense of the words; but the bulk of it was as far beyond his control as though he had thrown it into the sea.

At the time of Martin Bransby's first marriage, old Rabbitt had made most stringent arrangements in his daughter's interest. Not only her own dowry (which was a handsome one), but nearly the whole of Martin's property was strictly settled on her and her children. Mr. Rabbitt was enabled to drive a hard bargain by his command of ready money. He advanced a large sum to his son-in-law for the purchase of Cadell's share in the firm. Mr. Cadell was old, and wished to retire; the opportunity was favourable, and promised brilliant results. Nor were these promises belied by experience. The old-established solicitor's business was a very flourishing and lucrative one. Martin Bransby was soon able to pay back the loan to his father-in-law with interest. Old Rabbitt observed that this was only taking from one hand to give to the other, for it would all come back to him and his in the end. As a matter of fact, old Rabbitt left every penny he had in the world to his daughter and her children after her; but the money was strictly tied up out of her husband's reach.

This seemed a trifling matter in those days to Martin Bransby. Whom should he desire to enrich but his own children? and things were going so well in the office that it seemed probable he might amass another fortune. But when, after his second marriage, a young family began to gather round him, he could not help regretting the terms of his original marriage settlement. As soon as Theodore came of age Mr. Bransby made an attempt to induce him to relinquish some part of the property in favour of his younger brothers and sisters; but the attempt failed, and was never repeated. Mr. Bransby was deeply wounded by Theodore's attitude, and, on his side, Theodore considered his father's request unreasonable and unfair.

"If I might venture on a suggestion, I would advise your retrenching a little, sir," he had said with icy politeness; "in that way you would soon save enough to provide for Mrs. Bransby and her children in a style fully equal to what they have any right to expect from you."

The remembrance of that interview was a thorn in the flesh of Martin Bransby, and it left in Theodore's mind increased resentment against his father's second marriage.

But Theodore's advice, however unfilially proffered, was sound enough. Retrenchment in the daily expenses of that easy-going and lavish household would have been judicious; but then to retrench would have been to deprive Louisa of the luxuries and elegancies which so became her, and which gave her so much pleasure. Instead of taking this disagreeable method, Mr. Bransby tried speculation. He made one or two lucky strokes, but at the first loss became panic-stricken, and threw good money after bad in a kind of desperation.

After his death something of all this leaked out in a confused way, to the public astonishment. "To think of Martin Bransby's money matters being in a bad way!" people said. "There must be more in this than meets the eye, for he was acknowledged to be a first-rate man of business."

In brief, as much amazement was expressed as though "men of business" were commonly infallible, and the world had never heard of a man of business whose conduct was not ruled by self-restraining prudence. At the same time many persons declared they had long ago prophesied disaster, and had even warned Martin to put some check on his wife's extravagance. But such little inconsistencies as these are but pebbles in the stream of general gossip; diversifying it with an agreeable ripple, but never checking its flow.

May wrote an affectionate letter of condolence to Mrs. Bransby. She received no answer to it; and presently she learned that Mrs. Bransby and her children had left Oldchester, and gone to London. Constance Hadlow did not mention the family at all in writing to Mrs. Dormer-Smith. They had fallen out of the sphere of her observation; and no one can be expected to turn away his telescope from contemplating the fixed stars in order to stare at common terrestrial phenomena—especially phenomena of a non-metallic and unproductive nature.

About Christmas time Theodore Bransby called unexpectedly at Mrs. Dormer-Smith's house in London. He came early in the forenoon—so early, indeed, that Mrs. Dormer-Smith was not yet visible. On asking to see Miss Cheffington, he was shown into a room where May was sitting with the children. (Harold and Wilfred were now permitted to spend part of the morning with their cousin, at her particular request. And it was found that this arrangement answered the double purpose of delighting the boys, and leaving Cecile more leisure for needlework.)

May started and flushed on hearing Mr. Theodore Bransby's name announced. But the first glimpse of Theodore disarmed her wrath. He was paler than ever—or seemed to be so, in his deep mourning, and there was unmistakable sorrow in his face. May rose quickly, and gave him her hand in silence. There were tears in her eyes, and the unexpected sight of tears in his, made her forgive him for pressing her hand harder, and holding it longer than mere politeness warranted.

"I have been so sorry!" said May.

"Thank you," he answered. "You are always kind and good."

"So sorry for you all—the widow—the poor children—!" added May, as a bright drop brimmed over, and rolled down her cheek.

Theodore relinquished her hand, and rapidly passing his handkerchief across his eyes, gave a dry, husky, little cough in his throat. It was a sound which curiously repelled sympathy.

"You were not in Oldchester when your dear father died," said May. She did not intend any covert reproach. Her words were prompted by a pitying thought of the undying regret which must haunt Theodore on this score.

"No; I was not there. I know I have been blamed for that."

"Oh, indeed I had no such meaning!"

"I well believe it. But I have been blamed—most unjustly. I went away with my father's full consent; indeed, he thought I needed the change. He wrote to me when he found himself growing worse, to ask me to come back. Of course I meant to comply with that request. You cannot doubt it?"

"I have no right to doubt it," answered May gently.

"No, but pray listen! I wish to justify myself in your eyes. The truth is, I was in the act of packing my valise to return to Oldchester when a telegram reached me, saying that my father's danger was imminent. I was in Yorkshire, in a country house, where there was but one postal delivery a day. Letters were often delayed, and, in fact, my father's letter had preceded the telegram only by a few hours."

"Oh, how sad! I am so sorry for you!" cried May, clasping her hands. She felt some generous compunction for having done him injustice.

"Yes; I have lost a good father," said Theodore.

"You have, indeed. And what a loss is Mrs. Bransby's!"

A subtle change came over his face, although he did not seem to move a muscle, and he made no answer.

"How is she?" asked May, leaning forward eagerly.

Theodore's eyebrows took their old supercilious curve, as he replied, "Mrs. Bransby? Oh, she's quite well, I believe."

"Believe! Have you not seen her lately?"

"Oh yes; I have seen her. She appeared perfectly well. I did not at first quite take in the sense of your question; but I see now what you meant. Every one has not such keen sensibilities as you, May."

Even this familiar use of her name she let pass, although it jarred upon her.

"I am sure Mrs. Bransby is not insensible," she answered. "And she loved your father dearly."

"I am not disputing it. But she was, and is, a doating mother, and her feelings are greatly engrossed by her children. In one way this is happy for her. She does not feel the void, the loneliness, which oppresses me."

It seemed to May that there might be some truth in this. Theodore was not generally beloved. Cold as he seemed, he doubtless missed his father's affection. He would feel isolated and forlorn. This might be in great part his own fault; but May pitied him. She softened towards him still more when he went on to speak of his plans for assisting his young step-brothers. He had already offered to send Martin to school at his own expense. He was endeavouring to be of use to Mrs. Bransby. She was, unfortunately, very unpractical, and rather impracticable; but he hoped that, when her grief calmed down, she would listen to reason and take advice.

"Is she not well off?" asked May, moved by genuine interest in the widow and her family.

Theodore shook his head. "I may tell you," he said, "that she is in very straitened circumstances. I do not proclaim this generally, because people who know how indefatigably my poor father worked, and what a large income he earned, are apt to blame her, and accuse her of extravagance."

While he was still speaking, a message came from Mrs. Dormer-Smith asking Mr. Bransby to go to her in the drawing-room. She, too, was touched by his mourning garb and pale face, and received him with sympathetic gentleness. May's report of his behaviour in Oldchester had been favourable, in so far that he had not attempted to renew his suit. But what most of all conciliated Mrs. Dormer-Smith was the thought of Mr. Bragg. Now that her niece was so near making a splendid marriage, it was easier to forgive Theodore's presumption. Doubtless the young man had already seen his error; and really, putting aside that one aberration, he was very nice!

Her good opinion was increased in the course of their private conversation, which turned on matters very interesting to Pauline. Theodore had seen her uncle lately; he had, moreover, had a good deal of talk with him about matters political. A vacancy was likely to occur shortly in the representation of that division of the county where Lord Castlecombe's landed property was situated. The Castlecombes were anxious to oppose a threatened Radical candidate, and Theodore had offered to stand.

On his elder brother's death, Lucius Cheffington had resigned his post in the Civil Service, and, under normal circumstances, his father would have desired that he should return to the House of Commons; but his health was at present too feeble to warrant his attempting any exertion. Then old Lord Castlecombe thought it would be well to put some one into the vacant seat who might be willing to resign it whenever Lucius should be able and willing to come forward again as a candidate. This was not expressed, but understood; and Lord Castlecombe had approved of Theodore's ready comprehension of the state of the case, and his clear view of the advantages such an arrangement would afford to himself. Election expenses, even in these days of purity and the ballot, retain as mysterious a rapidity of growth as Jack's beanstalk, and the assistance of Lord Castlecombe would be very solidly valuable. On the other hand, Theodore considered that, ambition apart, it would be useful to him in his career as a barrister to write M.P. after his name, and was willing to assume some share of the cost of the canvass. The old lord discovered in this sententious young gentleman two merits—the possession of money, and the knowledge how to spend it advantageously.

Lucius acquiesced passively in all his father's arrangements; but he could not be induced to thaw half a degree in his personal relations with Theodore.

"The fellow is an intolerable prig," he said to his father; "and his vulgarity is of a particularly objectionable kind—the fine pretentious kind."

"Oh, of course, he's a d—d snob," answered my lord, with cheerful candour. "But what the deuce does that matter? We are not going to take him to our arms; only to throw him into the arms of the voters! And I can tell you, it will be a vast deal better to have him for our member than Mr. Butter, the Radical button-maker. At any rate, this young Bransby won't go in for abolishing the Peers, or starting a Separatist crusade in the Scilly Islands."

In the course of his talk with Mrs. Dormer-Smith, Theodore hinted to her as much of his political outlook as seemed good to him. The account of his relations with Lord Castlecombe greatly impressed her; for she was very sure her uncle would not waste any of his time and attention on an entirely insignificant person. And Theodore's tone in speaking of the political position of the Castlecombe family was such as to win her complete approval and sympathy.

When Pauline talked over his visit with her husband, after narrating that part of it which concerned Lord Castlecombe, she added, "And the young man has a great deal of proper feeling. I really begin to think that mistake he made must have been in some way May's fault:—oh, not intentionally, Frederick; but she is so—so unformed in her ideas! However, we need not discuss all that; for I am convinced Mr. Bransby is quite safe now. I was going to say that he told me confidentially that he would not advise us to encourage any intimacy between May and his step-mother. She is in London, I believe; letting lodgings, or some dreadful thing of that sort. It is just the kind of thing May would delight in, if I would let her—visiting and championing people who are in impossible positions, and talking all kinds of Quixotic nonsense about them! However, this Mrs. Bransby is not the kind of person who can be encouraged. She is very handsome, I understand, and tant soit peu, coquette. There was some not too creditable flirtation with young Rivers before her husband's death; and Mr. Bransby evidently thinks she is the kind of woman always to have some one dangling after her. He spoke really very nicely, and said he hoped she might soon marry again, as she is scarcely fit to be trusted with the responsibility of bringing up a young family. You are so apt to indulge May in her whims, that I thought it necessary to repeat all this with distinctness. You must see, as I do, that it would be quite disastrous for May to keep up any intimacy with such a person as this Mrs. Bransby—a handsome, flirting, needy widow! If she were even in society——!"