complicated ways by which two people, generally old enough to know better, are brought into the relations of intrigue or passion with each other--which ends badly, either in the death of one or the disgust of both: and so _da capo_, always beginning over again. ‘Good heavens!’ said Mrs. Brown to herself again, ‘how can she go on day after day, day after day, reading _that_--and remembering!’ The schoolmistress had no objection to a French novel of this class herself now and then; and reading only now and then--being within reach of such indulgences only now and then--naturally she got only the best, the ones that had wit and genius in them. But the unhappy woman who lived upon that food for ever! What garbage, what insipidity of nastiness must go through her hands! The poor Bohemian whose life was a continual scuffle (chiefly of her own choosing) looked upon this unvarying luxury, ease, and wealth, with a horror and wonder which it would be difficult to describe. ‘Good heavens!’ she repeated to herself; ‘why doesn’t she take a little chloral and be done?’ Mrs. Swinford gave a start of pleasure when, sweeping into her room in those long and splendid robes which were more fit for a Court than for a country house of so little distinction as the Hall at Watcham, she perceived Mrs. Brown sitting by the fire. It was, perhaps, the only event which could have lighted up her face with pleasure. She was cross, excited, full of the impatience and exasperation of effort which she felt to be at least only half successful; and Julie had perceived by her first glance at the lines on her lady’s brow that her evening’s task to undress, and soothe, and persuade into calm and sleep this agitated and disturbed old woman would be no easy one. ‘You come at the best time. You always know when I have need of you,’ Mrs. Swinford said, letting herself drop, as was her wont, into Mrs. Brown’s arms. The very passiveness of the embrace was a habit--a habit of reliance and expected help which had never failed. If such a thing as affection had ever been in Mrs. Swinford’s heart it was this other woman, so like her, and so unlike, who was its object. ‘I see you are got up for conquest,’ Mrs. Brown said. ‘Conquest! I am dressed as usual. There was one guest at dinner--an insignificant boy. You can leave us, Julie, till I ring. A boy, but with such a name! What do you think? A nephew--Lord Will they call him fortunately, or it would have been too much.’ ‘A nephew----! of----’ ‘Do you need to inquire? Then you are growing dull, dull as your surroundings. You who used to understand everything _à demi-mot_!’ ‘I understand. I almost met him on the stairs. I thought there was something familiar in his face. And what does he want here?’