He stayed an hour or so in conference with her, and rode back to Diplow in a state of mind that was at once hopeful and busily anxious as to the execution of the little plan on which his hopefulness was based. Grandcourt’s marriage to Gwendolen Harleth would not, he believed, be much of a good to either of them, and it would plainly be fraught with disagreeables to himself. But now he felt confident enough to say inwardly, “I will take, nay, I will lay odds that the marriage will never happen.” CHAPTER XIV. I will not clothe myself in wreck—wear gems Sawed from cramped finger-bones of women drowned; Feel chilly vaporous hands of ireful ghosts Clutching my necklace: trick my maiden breast With orphans’ heritage. Let your dead love Marry its dead. Gwendolen looked lovely and vigorous as a tall, newly-opened lily the next morning: there was a reaction of young energy in her, and yesterday’s self-distrust seemed no more than the transient shiver on the surface of a full stream. The roving archery match in Cardell Chase was a delightful prospect for the sport’s sake: she felt herself beforehand moving about like a wood-nymph under the beeches (in appreciative company), and the imagined scene lent a charm to further advances on the part of Grandcourt—not an impassioned lyrical Daphnis for the wood-nymph, certainly: but so much the better. To-day Gwendolen foresaw him making slow conversational approaches to a declaration, and foresaw herself awaiting and encouraging it according to the rational conclusion which she had expressed to her uncle. When she came down to breakfast (after every one had left the table except Mrs. Davilow) there were letters on her plate. One of them she read with a gathering smile, and then handed it to her mamma, who, on returning it, smiled also, finding new cheerfulness in the good spirits her daughter had shown ever since waking, and said, “You don’t feel inclined to go a thousand miles away?” “Not exactly so far.” “It was a sad omission not to have written again before this. Can’t you write now—before we set out this morning?” “It is not so pressing. To-morrow will do. You see they leave town to-day. I must write to Dover. They will be there till Monday.” “Shall I write for you, dear—if it teases you?” Gwendolen did not speak immediately, but after sipping her coffee, answered brusquely, “Oh no, let it be; I will write to-morrow.” Then, feeling a touch of compunction, she looked up and said with playful tenderness, “Dear, old, beautiful mamma!” “Old, child, truly.” “Please don’t, mamma! I meant old for darling. You are hardly twenty-five years older than I am. When you talk in that way my life shrivels up before me.” “One can have a great deal of happiness in twenty-five years, my dear.” “I must lose no time in beginning,” said Gwendolen, merrily. “The sooner I get my palaces and coaches the better.” “And a good husband who adores you, Gwen,” said Mrs. Davilow, encouragingly.