“But I can’t; my plans are cut and dried by Mr. J. I shall write to you often, dear, and expect to see you back in six months, or at least twelve, looking quite yourself; now, promise me.” Madeline, whose spirits were running down and a reaction setting in, made no answer, save tears. Lady Rachel’s warning sank into fruitful soil. Madeline plucked up sufficient energy to urge her father to relieve her of her incubus. “I should much prefer being alone; I should indeed.” “Pooh, pooh, my dear!” recalling her doctor’s advice, and thinking what an agreeable shipmate he was providing, not only for Madeline, but himself. “Nonsense; it’s all settled, passages booked. No change possible.” “I shall be far happier without her.” “Oh, rubbish! You are just weak now, and fanciful. Mrs. Leach is devoted to you.” “I doubt it; and, father, let me tell you a secret. I don’t like her. I am sure she is not sincere. She is not straight.” “Come, come; she is as sincere as most women. I wonder who has been putting these notions into your head--Lady Rachel, eh? Mrs. Leach gave me a hint. Lady Rachel is all very well, and very pleasant; but a bit rapid, you know.” “Whatever she does is open and above-board,” protested Madeline warmly. “I’m not so sure of _that_, my dear. Mrs. Leach knows a few things that would never stand the light, and her ladyship is aware of this, and that’s why she hates our good friend, and wants to set you against her.” Madeline, weak and miserable, could not argue. She was powerless against the attractive widow. She, poor hollow-eyed wreck, was no fitting opponent for the fascinating Flora, whose battery of beauty and smiles was most effective, and had captivated Madeline’s susceptible parent. Her influence was far more powerful than Madeline’s, on the question of what was for the benefit of the invalid, and the invalid saw that it was useless to prolong the secret struggle, and succumbed to her fate. Laurence Wynne had not come across Mr. West for a considerable time; but he knew that the Wests were at Brighton, and that Miss West was almost convalescent. It was the end of October, London was filling, and he was lunching at his club, with one or two acquaintances at the same table, when one of them said-- “Hullo! there’s old West. I must go and have a word with him presently. He looks rather down; not half as smart and perky as last year.” “He has lost a good deal of money!” observed the other. “Yes; but not as much as is supposed. He is an uncommonly shrewd old boy, and knows when to save himself; but he can’t save himself from his present trouble. He is going to lose his daughter?” “His what?” put in Wynne, quickly. “Daughter. Surely you’ve heard of the lovely Miss West? She was the rage for two seasons. She got diphtheria in the summer, and----” “Yes, yes; I know,” impatiently.