By the time that he had dined with some people, who had sent him a card on his return to London, and had subjected himself to the mortifying influence of some unfamiliar _entrées_, and a conversation with a woman who was the survivor of the wreck of spiritualism in London, he was no longer in the exultant mood of the afternoon. “A Fool’s Paradise--a Fool’s Paradise!” he murmured, as he sat in an easy-chair, and gazed into his flickering fire. It had been very glorious to think that he was beloved by that exquisite girl--to think of the kisses of her mouth; but whither was the love leading him? His father’s words could not be forgotten--those words which he had spoken from beneath the eiderdown of his bed at Castle Innisfail; and Harold knew that, should he marry Beatrice, his father would certainly carry out his threat of cutting off his allowance. Thus it was that he sat in his chair feeling that, even though Beatrice had refused to be separated from him, still they were as completely parted by circumstances as if she had immediately acknowledged the force of his arguments, and had accepted, his invitation to say good-bye for ever. Thus it was that he cried, “A Fool’s Paradise--a Fool’s Paradise!” as he thought over the whole matter. What were the exact elements of the Paradise in which his exclamation suggested that he was living, he might have had some difficulty in defining. But then the site of the original Paradise is still a matter of speculation. The next day he went to take lunch with her and her father--he had promised to do so before he had left her, when they had had their interview. It so happened, however, that he only partook of lunch with Beatrice; for Mr. Avon had, he learned, been compelled to go to Dublin for some days, to satisfy himself regarding a document which was in a library in that city. Harold did not grumble at the prospect of a long afternoon by her side; only he could not help feeling that the _ménage_ of the Avon family was one of the most remarkable that he had ever known. The historical investigations of Mr. Avon did not seem to induce him to take a conventional view of his obligations, as the father of an extremely handsome girl--assuming that he was aware of the fact of her beauty--or a pessimistic view of modern society. He seemed to allow Beatrice to be in every way her own mistress--to receive whatever visitors she pleased; and to lay no narrow-minded prohibition upon such an incident as lunching _tête-à-tête_ with a young man, or perhaps--but Harold had no knowledge of such a case--an old man. He wondered if the historian had ever been remonstrated with on this subject, by such persons as had not had the advantage of scrutinizing humanity through the medium of state papers.