The reader may remember a certain trifling incident which took place some three or four months since on the lawn at Popham Villa. It was an incident which Clary Underwood had certainly never forgotten. It is hardly too much to say that she thought of it every hour. She thought of it as a great sin;--but as a sin which had been forgiven, and, though a grievous sin, as strong evidence of that which was not sinful, and which if true would be so full of joy. Clary had never forgotten this incident;--but Ralph had forgotten it nearly altogether. That he had accompanied the incident by any assurance of his love, by any mention of love intended to mean anything, he was altogether unaware. He would have been ready to swear that he had never so committed himself. Little tender passages of course there had been. Such are common,--so he thought,--when young ladies and young gentlemen know each other well and are fond of each other's company. But that he owed himself to Clarissa Underwood, and that he would sin grievously against her should he give himself to another, he had no idea. It merely occurred to him that there might be some slight preparatory embarrassment were he to offer his hand to Mary Bonner. Yet he thought that of all the girls in the world Mary Bonner was the one to whom he would best like to offer it. It might indeed be possible for him to marry some young woman with money; but in his present frame of mind he was opposed to any such effort. Hitherto things with him had been all worldly, empty, useless, and at the same time distasteful. He was to have married Polly Neefit for her money, and he had been wretched ever since he had entertained the idea. Love and a cottage were, he knew, things incompatible; but the love and the cottage implied in those words were synonymous with absolute poverty. Love with thirty thousand pounds, even though it should have a cottage joined with it, need not be a poverty-stricken love. He was sick of the world,--of the world such as he had made it for himself, and he would see if he could not do something better. He would first get Mary Bonner, and then he would get the farm. He was so much delighted with the scheme which he thus made for himself, that he went to his club and dined there pleasantly, allowing himself a bottle of champagne as a sort of reward for having made up his mind to so much virtue. He met a friend or two, and spent a pleasant evening, and as he walked home to his lodgings in the evening was quite in love with his prospects. It was well for him to have rid himself of the burden of an inheritance which might perhaps not have been his for the next five-and-twenty years. As he undressed himself he considered whether it would be well for him at once to throw himself at Mary Bonner's feet. There were two reasons for not doing this quite immediately. He had been told by his lawyer that he ought to wait for some form of assent or agreement from the Squire before