The visit of Janet Spears had made a great impression upon Lady Markham. She abstained as long as she could from speaking of it to Alice, but what is there which a woman can keep from her closest companion, her daughter, who is as her own soul? Up to this moment Alice had known nothing whatever about Janet Spears, not even of her existence. Perhaps Lady Markham’s discretion, and the painful sense that she had interfered injudiciously in Paul’s affairs, might not have sufficed to keep her secret; but Sir William’s illness had carried the day over everything, and not a word had been said between the mother and daughter on this subject. Even now Lady Markham made a heroic effort. Full as was her mind of the visit, she kept it to herself for two long days, thinking over everything that had been said, and wondering if she had done as she ought, or if she should have been more kind to the girl whom (was it possible?) Paul loved, or more severe upon the creature who had enthralled him. At one time she thought of Janet in one way, at another in the other. The girl he loved (was it possible?), or the woman who had put forth evil arts and got him in her power. It is hard for a woman to be quite just to any one, male or female, who has injured her son: and people say it is hardest to be just, to a woman who has done so. [In this point I do not feel qualified to judge; but men say so who know women better, naturally, than they know themselves.] Lady Markham struggled very hard to be just: but it was difficult; and in a moment of pressure, when Alice came upon her suddenly, and with a soft arm round her and a soft cheek laid against hers, entreated to know if there was any fresh trouble--how could she help but tell her everything? Alice justified all vulgar sentiment on the subject by being triumphantly unjust. “He must have been cheated into it,” she cried. “Paul--_Paul!_ so fastidious as he is, how could he ever, ever, have thought of a girl like that?” But Lady Markham, anxious to keep the balance even, shook her head. “My dearest, you don’t know much about men. I can’t tell why it is. They choose those whom you would think they would fly from, and fly from those whom you would think--I don’t know, Alice, perhaps they get tired of the kind of women like you and me, whom they see every day.” “Mamma!” “I have thought so often, dear. _We_ don’t feel so, but men--they get tired of one kind of woman. They think they will try something different. It has always been a mystery. And you must not think this was a--was not a good girl. I saw nothing wrong about her. Perhaps a little more---- no, I don’t know what to say. She was not saucy, or bold, or---- Perhaps it was only that she was not a lady,” Lady Markham said with a sigh. “But that Paul should care for any one who was not a lady,” Alice said, clasping her hands together with mingled despair and impatience; and then she cried suddenly, “Poor little Dolly!”