Mrs. Harold Smith, whatever may have been her faults, could boast of this virtue—that she loved her brother. He was probably the only human being that she did love. Children she had none; and as for her husband, it had never occurred to her to love him. She had married him for a position; and being a clever woman, with a good digestion and command of her temper, had managed to get through the world without much of that unhappiness which usually follows ill-assorted marriages. At home she managed to keep the upper hand, but she did so in an easy, good-humoured way that made her rule bearable; and away from home she assisted her lord’s political standing, though she laughed more keenly than any one else at his foibles. But the lord of her heart was her brother; and in all his scrapes, all his extravagances, and all his recklessness, she had ever been willing to assist him. With the view of doing this she had sought the intimacy of Miss Dunstable, and for the last year past had indulged every caprice of that lady. Or rather, she had had the wit to learn that Miss Dunstable was to be won, not by the indulgence of caprices, but by free and easy intercourse, with a dash of fun, and, at any rate, a semblance of honesty. Mrs. Harold Smith was not, perhaps, herself very honest by disposition; but in these latter days she had taken up a theory of honesty for the sake of Miss Dunstable—not altogether in vain, for Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold Smith were certainly very intimate. “If I am to do it at all, I must not wait any longer,” said Mr. Sowerby to his sister a day or two after the final break-down of the gods. The affection of the sister for the brother may be imagined from the fact that at such a time she could give up her mind to such a subject. But, in truth, her husband’s position as a cabinet minister was as nothing to her compared with her brother’s position as a county gentleman. “One time is as good as another,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “You mean that you would advise me to ask her at once.” “Certainly. But you must remember, Nat, that you will have no easy task. It will not do for you to kneel down and swear that you love her.” “If I do it at all, I shall certainly do it without kneeling—you may be sure of that, Harriet.” “Yes, and without swearing that you love her. There is only one way in which you can be successful with Miss Dunstable—you must tell her the truth.” “What!—tell her that I am ruined, horse, foot, and dragoons, and then bid her help me out of the mire?” “Exactly: that will be your only chance, strange as it may appear.” “This is very different from what you used to say, down at Chaldicotes.” “So it is; but I know her much better than I did when we were there. Since then I have done but little else than study the freaks of her character. If she really likes you—and I think she does—she could forgive you any other crime but that of swearing that you loved her.”