“I--well--I am sentimental” (about as sentimental as a charwoman), “and I have my own ideas. I think that dear Madeline has a private romance: that she either cares for some one whom she can never marry----” “That’s nonsense,” interrupted her companion, impatiently. “I have her word of honour that there is no one she wants to marry.” “Oh, well, she may have loved and _lost_,” said the lady, sweetly; “for, speaking as a woman, it is inconceivable that a girl who is, or was, heart-free could be absolutely indifferent to _every one_. She has dozens of admirers, for she is not only very pretty, but”--and she smiled enchantingly into Mr. West’s little eyes--“very rich--your heiress. It is my opinion that Madeline has some little closet in her heart that you have never seen--that she is constant to some memory. Of course, time tries all things, and in time this memory will fade; but I am positive that dearest Madeline will not marry for some years.” Then she tapped his arm playfully. They were sitting side-by-side in a shady path in the vast pleasure grounds. “You will be married before her _yourself_.” “I--I--marry! I have never dreamt of such a thing.” “Why not, pray? You are comparatively young. A man is always young, until he is really going downhill. A man is young at fifty. Now, look at a woman at fifty!” and she paused expressively. He turned his eyes upon her. Little did he suppose that he was contemplating a woman of fifty--a woman who was extravagant, luxurious, dreadfully in debt, almost at the end of her resources and her friends’ forbearance, and who was resolved upon marrying him whom she had once called “that vulgar horror, the little Australian squatter.” He looked at her with a rather shame-faced air and a grin. Alas! flattery was hurrying him to destruction. She was an extremely handsome woman, of the Juno type--erect, stately, with bright, dark eyes, dark hair, a short straight nose, and beautiful teeth (some were her own). She was dressed in a pale yellow muslin, with white ribbons, and wore a most fascinating picture-hat and veil; her gloves, shoes, and sunshade were of the choicest, and it was not improbable that, in the coming by-and-by, Mr. West would have the pleasure of paying for this charming toilette. “A woman of fifty,” she pursued, “is an old hag; her day has gone by, her hour of retreat has sounded. She is grey, stout--ten to one, unwieldy--and dowdy. Now, a _man_ of fifty shoots, hunts, dances as he did when he was twenty-five--in fact, as far as dancing goes, he is thrice as keen as the ordinary ball-room boy, who simply won’t dance, and is the despair of hostesses!” “I’ve never thought of marrying,” he repeated. “Never!” “No; all your thoughts are for Madeline, I am aware, and the alliance she is to make; but my motto is, ‘Live while you live; live your own individual life, and don’t starve on the scraps of other people’s good things.’”