“Absolutely, Lucian. Does not your instinct warn you that it would be a mistake for you to marry me?” “No; I cannot say that it does.” “Then trust to mine, which gives forth no uncertain note on this question, as your favorite newspapers are fond of saying.” “It is a question of feeling,” he said, in a constrained voice. “Is it?” she replied, with interest. “You have surprised me somewhat, Lucian. I have never observed any of the extravagances of a lover in your conduct.” “And you have surprised me very unpleasantly, Lydia. I do not think now that I ever had much hope of success; but I thought, at least, that my disillusion would be gently accomplished.” “What! Have I been harsh?” “I do not complain.” “I was unlucky, Lucian; not malicious. Besides, the artifices by which friends endeavor to spare one another’s feelings are pretty disloyalties. I am frank with you. Would you have me otherwise?” “Of course not. I have no right to be offended.” “Not the least. Now add to that formal admission a sincere assurance that you ARE not offended.” “I assure you I am not,” said Lucian, with melancholy resignation. They had by this time reached Charlotte Street, and Lydia tacitly concluded the conference by turning towards the museum, and beginning to talk upon indifferent subjects. At the corner of Russell Street he got into a cab and drove away, dejectedly acknowledging a smile and wave of the hand with which Lydia tried to console him. She then went to the national library, where she forgot Lucian. The effect of the shock of his proposal was in store for her, but as yet she did not feel it; and she worked steadily until the library was closed and she had to leave. As she had been sitting for some hours, and it was still light, she did not take a cab, and did not even walk straight home. She had heard of a bookseller in Soho who had for sale a certain scarce volume which she wanted; and it occurred to her that the present was a good opportunity to go in search of him. Now, there was hardly a capital in western Europe that she did not know better than London. She had an impression that Soho was a region of quiet streets and squares, like Bloomsbury. Her mistake soon became apparent; but she felt no uneasiness in the narrow thoroughfares, for she was free from the common prejudice of her class that poor people are necessarily ferocious, though she often wondered why they were not so. She got as far as Great Pulteney Street in safety; but in leaving it she took a wrong turning and lost herself in a labyrinth of courts where a few workmen, a great many workmen’s wives and mothers, and innumerable workmen’s children were passing the summer evening at gossip and play. She explained her predicament to one of the women, who sent a little boy wilh her to guide her. Business being over for the day, the street to which the boy led her was almost deserted. The only shop that seemed to be thriving was a public-house,