“I am not free, Lucy; I am bound hand and foot by the fetters I forged for myself some years ago; and I think, as I have told you one-half of the truth, it will be wisest to tell you the other half. Ten years ago I very dearly loved a young lady, as beautiful, as amiable as yourself, like yourself the only daughter of a gentleman in reduced circumstances, but not subjected to the trials which you have borne so nobly. I loved her dearly and truly; but I was a man of the world, a haunter of clubs, a little sceptical on the subject of feminine fortitude and feminine reasonableness; and I told myself that, in order to insure this young lady’s happiness and my own, I must first secure an income which would enable us to be dwellers within the pale of society. I had been taught that, on the outermost side of that impalpable, conventional boundary, domestic happiness for people of gentle rearing was impossible. It was not enough that I loved her; it was not enough that I believed myself beloved; something more than this was necessary--a brougham, a house in that border-land of Pimlico which courtesy can call Belgravia, and a fair allowance for the expenses of my wife’s toilette. Ah, Lucy, you can never imagine what ghostly shadows of flounced petticoats and voluminous silken trains arose between me and the image of the girl I loved, and waved me back, and made a phantasmal barrier between us! If you marry her, said Prudence, you must pay for those. I _will_ marry her, I answered, when I feel myself strong enough to cope with her milliner’s bill.” He laughed a short bitter laugh.