“Oh! Delaval! isn’t it terrible!” Zai says, as if his last words had fallen unheard. “Trixy _must_ awake some day to the consciousness of her conduct to her husband. He isn’t loveable or lovely of course, but he was awfully kind to her, you know. What will become of her, for I am afraid Mr. Conway is not a good man, and unless she had money, he wouldn’t care to be tied to her, I think!” “She _has_ money, old Stubbs settled £40,000 on her, and so long as it lasts Conway will stick to her like a leech, you may be sure; but when it’s gone, then Trixy will be sent to the devil!” “But he’ll marry her of course, directly the divorce is given! I hope and pray he will! for after all she has given up for him, it will be dreadful for Trixy to find out what he is! Papa can _make_ him marry her, can’t he, Delaval!” “No one can _make_ him marry her--except his conscience--but I doubt his having one. I say Zai, don’t you feel a little sorry that he has gone over to your sister? Women hate defection in men you know!” “I _am_ sorry for Trixy! I don’t understand what you mean by women hating defection in men, but if you think that it matters to me who Mr. Conway runs away with, you are quite wrong! I would rather it was anyone though but my sister, for of course I wish her to be happy.” “Which Mr. Conway’s noble presence ought to make her.” “Which it won’t make her. If I thought you would not call me spiteful--Delaval--I would tell you what I think!” “Tell away--child.” “Well, mamma said he was a cad, and though I don’t quite know the exact meaning of the word, I am afraid he is something of the sort!” CHAPTER IV. LA BLONDE AUX YEUX NOIR. “Your lithe hands draw me--your face burns through me, I am swift to follow you, keen to see, But love lacks might to redeem or undo me, As I have been--I shall surely be.” So, while all London talks of Trixy’s elopement with Carlton Conway, Lord Delaval carries his wife off to Paris, and, in sumptuous apartments at the Bristol, little Lord Vernon makes his appearance on the arena of life. Zai adores her first-born to absurd adoration, but she has not the very faintest idea how to take care of him, or the smallest conception what to do with him. She loves to hear, as well as to know, that God has given her a living child, and little Vernon does not disappoint her, for he screams away the first weeks with a pertinacity which is fortunately rather rare. He seems to have not only the germ of a lachrymose disposition, but is in actual fright at the new world in which he finds himself. According to the tenets of ideality and poetry, he ought to be like his father, a large, fair, serene-eyed boy, born out of mystic hours and moonlight dreaming. In reality he is the antipodes of serene, and is acutely organised. He is tiny, and timid, and tearful too, but Zai, after the fashion of most young mothers, considers him a cherub, a lump of perfection.