Poor Durant! if he thought he was mending matters by calling Arthur’s wife _she_, with that little emphasis, how mistaken he was! Lucy’s heart was conscious of a thrill and jar, such as one’s foot or hand might experience if suddenly striking against some sharp angle in the dark. She had no right to feel so unreasonably offended with Durant, so unreasonably disdainful of Arthur’s wife. Lucy was angry with herself for the force of her sentiments, which seemed so utterly out of proportion with the matter on hand. She thought it more dignified and befitting to retire from any further question of it. But her aspect changed unawares, her very form grew stiffer and more erect, and she said, icily, “You said you saw Arthur. Is he looking better than when we saw him last?” “No,” said Durant, hesitating; “I am not able to say that he is. I hope Lady Curtis will not ask me that question.” “Oh!” said Lucy, the tears springing to her eyes, “do you think I am not as anxious about my only brother--as concerned as mamma?” “Indeed I do not mean anything of the kind; but I can speak to you more freely. _You_ understand; you always did understand, Miss Curtis,” he said, looking at her with a tender admiration which stole the hardness from Lucy’s heart in spite of herself. “I do not know how it was. It is so natural that Lady Curtis--that all his family should see the folly and the unkindness of it most. But you always saw the whole--and understood.” “I never excused Arthur, Mr. Durant. No one could know the evil of what he has done--the pain it has produced so well as I.” “I know,” he said softly, “all the more honour to your delicate heart that understood. I beg your pardon--I was only speaking by way of explanation. I can speak to you as I cannot speak--to any one else. Arthur is not looking well, poor fellow--he is harassed and worried to death. All the glamour has gone out of his eyes, and he sees his wife’s family now as other people see them, as very common-place, sordid, uneducated people, with whom, or with their like, he has no affinity. I would not say even that he did not see this more deeply than--I do, for instance, who am quite indifferent. To me they seem good sort of people enough--in their way. But Arthur has the horror of feeling that they belong to him more or less--and that he is called upon to associate with them.” “Poor boy! oh, poor boy! and he was always so fastidious! But that is nothing, Mr. Durant--they do _not_ belong to him. He can shake them off whenever he likes; but her--what of her? She is the chief person to be thought of,” said Lucy, with a sigh that it should be so. “This is precisely the thing which I can say to you, and to no other,” said Durant. “She is not the same as they are. If you could fancy one of the stories of a stolen child--that was always different, always superior to the children of the people who brought it up--”