“Certainly not, if you are one of the bygones,” said the woman, coarsely; and Phoebe Dale waited to hear no more, but found her way, Heaven knows how, into the street, and there leaned, half-fainting, on a rail, till a policeman came, and told her she had been drinking, and suggested a cool cell as the best cure. “Not drink; only a breaking heart,” said she, in her low, mellow voice that few could resist. He got her a glass of water, drove away the boys that congregated directly, and she left the street. But she soon came back again, and waited about for Reginald Falcon. It was night when he appeared. She seized him by the breast, and taxed him with his villany. What with her iron grasp, pale face, and flashing eyes, he lost his cool impudence, and blurted out excuses. It was an old and unfortunate connection; he would give the world to dissolve it, if he could do it like a gentleman. Phoebe told him to please himself: he must part with one or the other. “Don't talk nonsense,” said this man of brass; “I'll un-Falcon her on the spot.” “Very well,” said Phoebe. “I am going home; and, if you are not there by to-morrow at noon”--She said no more, but looked a great deal. Then she departed, and refused him her hand at parting. “We will see about that by and by,” said she. At noon my lord came down to the farm, and, unfortunately for Phoebe, played the penitent so skilfully for about a month, that she forgave him, and loved him all the more for having so nearly parted with him. Her peace was not to endure long. He was detected in an intrigue in the very village. The insult struck so home that Phoebe herself, to her parents' satisfaction, ordered him out of the house at once. But, when he was gone, she had fits of weeping, and could settle to nothing for a long time. Months had elapsed, and she was getting a sort of dull tranquillity, when, one evening, taking a walk she had often with him, and mourning her solitude and wasted affection, he waylaid her, and clung to her knees, and shed crocodile tears on her hands, and, after a long resistance, violent at first, but fainter and fainter, got her in his power again, and that so completely that she met him several times by night, being ashamed to be seen with him in those parts by day. This ended in fresh promises of marriage, and in a constant correspondence by letter. This pest knew exactly how to talk to a woman, and how to write to one. His letters fed the unhappy flame; and, mind you, he sometimes deceived himself, and thought he loved her; but it was only himself he loved. She was an invaluable lover; a faithful, disinterested friend; hers was a vile bargain; his, an excellent one, and he clung to it.