She was about to call for an earl’s daughter, who was to chaperone her to a _fête_, where, from previous experience, she knew that many and many a head would be turned to look after pretty Miss West; and she liked to be admired! She had never gauged her own capacity for pleasure until the last few months. And Laurence required her to give up all this, to rend the veil from her secret, and stand before the world once more, shabby, faded, insignificant Mrs. Wynne, the wife of a briefless barrister! Of course she was devoted to Laurence. “Oh,” angrily to her own conscience, “do not think that I can ever change to him! But the hideous contrast between that life and this! He must give me a little more time--he must, he must! I _must_ enjoy myself a little!” she reiterated passionately to her beautiful reflection. “Once papa knows, I shall be thrust out to beggary. I know I shall; and I shall never have a carriage or a French gown again.” And this was the girl who, four months previously, had pawned her clothes for her husband’s necessaries, and walked miles to save twopence! Sudden riches are a terrible test--a severe trial of moral fibre, especially when they raise a girl of nineteen, with inherited luxurious tastes, from poverty, touching starvation, to be mistress of unbounded wealth, the daughter, only child and heiress of an open-handed Crœsus, with thousands as plentiful now as coppers once had been. “I will go down and see him. I must risk it; there is no other plan,” she murmured, as she rang her bell preparatory to putting herself in the hands of her maid. “Letters are so stupid. I will seize the first chance I can find, and steal down to the Holts, if it is but for half an hour, and tell Laurence that he _must_ wait; he must be patient.” And so he was--pathetically patient, as morning after morning he waited in the road and waylaid the postman, who seldom had occasion to come up to the farm; and still there was no letter. Madeline was daily intending to rush down, and day followed day without her finding the opportunity or the courage to carry out her purpose. And still Laurence waited; and then he began to fear that she must be ill. A whole week and no letter! He would go to town and inquire. No sooner thought of than done. Fear and keen anxiety now took the place of any other sensation, and hurriedly making a change in his clothes, and leaving a message for Mrs. Holt, he set off to the station--three miles--on foot, and took a third-class return to London. Once there, he made his way--and a long way it was--to the fashionable quarter of Belgrave Square. It was a sultry July afternoon, the very pavement was hot, the air oppressive--people were beginning to talk of Cowes and Scotland.