Mr. Chetwode hastily rose from his chair, and walked up and down the room as an escape-valve for his irritation. He could not bring himself to say a harsh word to the suffering girl before him, but he felt thoroughly provoked with her. Mr. Chetwode was an essentially prosaic, matter-of-fact man, and had once seriously offended a young poet of his acquaintance by averring that he considered poetry "as a cramp way of people saying what they wanted to say!" He controlled, however, his inclination to be very bitter and caustic on the occasion, and merely said, "Your inexperience, my poor Janet, has wofully misled you; young men present copies of verses as they do boxes of _bon-bons_ to several of their lady friends in succession, and mean no more by the one trifle than the other; endeavor, my dear, to forget the past, and resolve to be more wise in future." Thus saying, Mr. Chetwode left the room, went to his club, and after remaining there an hour, took a few turns in St. James's-park, where he was somewhat annoyed to encounter Heathcote. He had, however, no opportunity of escaping him; for Heathcote, who felt a little ashamed of his recent behavior, joined him, and made some inquiries respecting Philippa, lamenting his own ill-fortune in not having been able to make himself acceptable to her. "Philippa has chosen for herself," replied Mr. Chetwode, somewhat coldly, "and I see no reason to object to her choice. I am sorry, Mr. Heathcote, that you should have considered yourself obliged to make love to both my wards. I do not attach any importance to such a trifle as a copy of verses; but poor Janet, who has, as you may easily conclude, been unused to the slightest attention, actually considered that you were making an offer of your heart in rhyme, and has sadly felt the disappointment of her hopes." "Write verses to Miss Penson!" repeated Heathcote, in a half-derisive, half-astonished tone; "I never did such a thing, never dreamed of doing it; whoever told you so, my dear sir, has most grossly deceived you." "I heard it," replied Mr. Chetwode angrily, "from the lips of one whose truth has never been doubted--from poor Janet herself." "I can only repeat my asseveration," said Heathcote, "and am ready to do it in the presence of Miss Penson, of whose truthfulness I must beg to entertain a less favorable opinion than you seem to do; perhaps, however, some one has been sporting with her vanity, by writing verses to her in my name, in which case she is to be pitied." "Perhaps so," said Mr. Chetwode, thoughtfully. And he parted from Heathcote, and pursued his way home. Janet was in her own chamber, but he sent to desire her presence. "I am very much inclined, my poor girl," he said kindly, "from some hints which have been given to me, to surmise that the verses to which you allude were not sent to you by Heathcote, but by some one who successfully imitated his hand."