Lady Markham, when she returned to the brougham after her visit to Sir Joseph, manifestly avoided the subject. She was careful not to say anything of Markham or of Constance. Her manner was anxious, deprecatory, full of conciliation. She advised Frances, with much tenderness, to go and rest a little when they got home. “I fear you have been doing too much, my darling,” she cried, and followed her to her room with some potion in a glass. “I am quite well,” Frances said; “there is nothing the matter with me.” “But I am sure, my dearest, that you are overdone.” Her anxious and conciliatory looks were of themselves a tonic to Frances, and brought her back to herself. Markham, when he appeared in the evening, showed unusual feeling too. He was at the crisis, it seemed, of his own life, and perhaps other sentiments had therefore an easier hold upon him. He came in looking very downcast, with none of his usual banter in him. “Yes, I know. I have heard all about it, bless you. What else, do you think, are those fellows talking about? Poor beggar. Who ever thought he’d have gone down like that in so short a time? Now, mother, the only thing wanting is that you should say ‘I told you so.’ And Fan,--no, Fan can do worse; she can tell me that she thought he was safe in my hands.” “It is not my way to say I told you so, Markham; but yet----” “You could do it, mammy, if you tried--that is well known. I’m rather glad he is ill, poor beggar; it stops the business. But there are things to pay, that is the worst.” “Surely, if it is to a gentleman, he will forgive him,” cried Frances, “when he knows----” “Forgive him! Poor Gaunt would rather die. It would be as much as a man’s life was worth to offer to--forgive another man. But how should the child know? That’s the beauty of Society and the rules of honour, Fan. You can forgive a man many things, but not a shilling you’ve won from him. And how is he to mend, good life! with the thought of having to pay up in the end?” Markham repeated this despondent speech several times before he went gloomily away. “I had rather die straight off, and make no fuss. But even then, he’d have to pay up, or somebody for him. If I had known what I know now, I’d have eaten him sooner than have taken him among those fellows, who have no mercy.” “Markham, if you would listen to me, you would give them up--you too.” “Oh, I----” he said, with his short laugh. “They can’t do much harm to me.” “But you must change--in that as well as other things, if----” “Ah, if,” he said, with a curious grimace; and took up his hat and went away.