From the beginning to the end of this conversation Maude Hillary’s thoughts had been employed in debating one question--should she, or should she not, tell her future husband that Harcourt Lowther was the man to whom she had been previously engaged? He knew of that broken engagement, but he did not know the name of her lover. Was it her duty to tell him? It would be very unpleasant to do so; but then duty is so often unpleasant. She was still silently debating this subject; the words which she should speak were forming themselves in her mind; when the drawing-room door was opened, and a servant announced Mr. Lowther. Maude’s heart beat violently. Would there be a scene? Why had Harcourt come, when he knew----? But Mr. Lowther very speedily relieved her fears upon this subject. Nothing could be more delightful than his manner. He was cordial to his old servant, without attempting any airs of patronage. He could not have been more entirely at his ease with Maude, had he been the most indifferent of first-cousins. Mr. Lowther was only acting up to his determination to take things quietly. He had met Lionel Hillary in the City that morning, and had surprised the merchant by speaking of Maude’s engagement to Francis Tredethlyn. “But don’t alarm yourself, my dear Hillary,” he said with a frank smile. “To say that I adored, and do adore, your daughter, is only to admit a fact to which, I dare say, every male visitor at the Cedars would be happy to testify in a round-robin. Miss Hillary is made to be worshipped. I have only been one among a score of worshippers. If ever I hoped to overcome your very natural prejudice against my disgusting poverty, I have long ceased to hope it; so it was scarcely such a death-blow to me to discover what had happened during my exile. Will you let me renew my old relations with your household? Will you let me be one of the moths again? I know now that the candle will burn, and that its dangerous glare alone, and not its tender warmth, is reserved for me, so I shall have only myself to blame if I come away with a scorched wing.” Mr. Hillary’s only reply to this rather sentimental speech was a hearty invitation to dinner. “I can give you your favourite Rüdesheimer with the oysters. Chablis is a mistake, when you can get good hock. Sharp seven, remember; but you may go earlier if you care for croquet. I dare say you’ll find Tredethlyn there.” “The poor fellow is very hard hit, I suppose?” Mr. Hillary smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I never saw such a devoted creature. Good day.” The merchant hurried off, and Harcourt walked slowly away, pondering as he went. “A devoted creature. Yes, and there has been new blood let into the commercial anatomy of Hillary and Co. I dare say that poor devil Tredethlyn has been bled to a hideous extent.”