Patty, in spite of her years and her wisdom, would shake her head coquettishly at this suggestion, and invent some message for Peter which had no foundation in fact. ‘The Doctor is well, madam, and eats hearty; was out the most part of the day at the hospital, and dined with his friend Dr. Munro,’ Peter would announce. And on such fragments Carrie had to appease her hungry heart. Sebastian, poor man, had never been less inclined for social intercourse; had never eaten his meals with so little ‘heartiness’; had never visited the hospitals so seldom; but those two well-meaning retainers thought it kinder to suppress the true facts of the case—and perhaps they were right. ‘Never fear, Carrie; he will come round—parents always do; they can’t do without us,’ Phil used to say. ‘I wish you knew all the disputes I’ve had with my father!’ But Carrie said the cases were not quite similar, she fancied, and refused to be comforted. ‘’Tis well I am so beautifully happy with you, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘for this trouble weighs so on my heart that had I any other ’twould break in two.’ ‘Oh, no fear!’ laughed Phil. They led a very gay life, these two exceedingly irresponsible young people, and indeed, older heads were nodded in wisdom, and prophecies were made that Carrie would have trouble enough with her wild young husband. Philip seemed, for the present at least, to have given up work of any kind. He meant to be in Parliament some day, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoy himself and see the world. He was also letting Carrie see it, a process she much enjoyed, and, in Phil’s company, entered into with all her heart, unlike the lack-lustre young woman who had gone about with Lady Mallow the preceding winter. Carrie was now introduced into far finer circles than those of her worthy aunt. Her name figured in all the reports of what we should in this vulgar age call ‘smart’ society—a fact which afforded her a good deal of natural mundane satisfaction. ‘The beautiful Mrs. Meadowes,’ ‘Handsome Mrs. Philip Meadowes,’ ‘That most charming lady, Mrs. Meadowes’—these and similar descriptions of herself made Carrie dimple with pleasure. But a woman in such a position, so young, so beautiful, so unsophisticated, would, to defend herself aright, require a beak and claws, whereas our gentle Carrie had not even a sharp tongue wherewith to chastise her enemies. She entered society with no protection but simplicity—a much vaunted armour which, alas for the world, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Brought up as she had been almost exclusively among men—and honest men into the bargain—Carrie was quite ignorant of the wiles of her own sex, and scolded Philip heartily when he ventured to warn her against them; while, for the sterner sex, she entertained almost pathetic feelings of confidence and liking. The men did not exist (in consequence) who could resist her, and this more than any other cause at last opened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutions