“By the way, Mr. Dunn, what are they doing in Parliament about us? Is there not something contemplated by which we can insist upon separate maintenance, or having a suitable settlement, or--” “Separation--divorce,” said Lady Grace, solemnly. “No, my Lady, the law is only repairing an old road, not making a new one. The want of the age is cheapness,--cheap literature, cheap postage, and cheap travelling, and why not cheap divorce? Legislation now professes as its great aim to extend to the poor all the comforts of the rich; and as this is supposed to be one of them--” “Have you any reason to doubt it, sir?” asked Lady Grace. “Luxuries cease to be luxuries when they become common. Cheap divorce will be as unfashionable as cheap pine-apple when a coal-heaver can have it,” said Lady Lackington. “You mistake, it seems to me, what constitutes the luxury,” interposed Lady Grace. “Every day of the year sees men liberated from prison, yet no one will pretend that the sense of freedom is less dear to every creature thus delivered.” “Your figure is but too like,” said Dunn. “The divorced wife will be to the world only too much a resemblance of the liberated prisoner. Dark or fair, guilty or innocent, she will carry with her the opprobrium of a public trial, a discussion, and a verdict. Now, how few of us would go through an operation in public for the cure of a malady! Would we not rather hug our sorrows and our sufferings in secrecy than accept health on such conditions?” “Not when the disease was consuming your very vitals,--not when a perpetual fever racked your brain and boiled in your blood. You'd take little heed of what is called exposure then. The cry of your heart would be, 'Save me! save me!'” As she spoke, her voice grew louder and wilder, till it became almost a shriek, and, as she ended, she lay back, flushed and panting, in her chair. “You have made her quite nervous, Mr. Dunn,” said Lady Lackington, as she arose and fanned her. “Oh, no. It's nothing. Just let me have a little fresh air,--on the terrace. Will you give me your arm?” said Lady Grace, faintly. And Dunn assisted her as she arose and walked out. “How very delicious this is!” said she, as she leaned over the balcony, and gazed down upon the placid water, streaked with long lines of starlight. “I conclude,” said she, after a little pause, “that scenes like this--moments as peacefully tranquil--are as dear to you, hard-worked men of the world, as they are to the wearied hearts of us poor women, all whose ambitions are so humble in comparison.” “We are all of us striving for the same goal, I believe,” said he,--“this same search after happiness, the source of so much misery!” “You are not married, I believe?” said she, in an accent whose very softness had a tone of friendship. “No; I am as much alone in the world as one well can be,” rejoined he, sorrowfully.