“But,” said Arthur, very seriously this time, and speaking in language which would have carried conviction to his brother’s mind, even had the latter (which was not the case) entertained the idea that there was anything “really wrong” in Arthur’s intimacy with John Beacham’s family,--“but, Horace, I declare to you solemnly, by all I hold most sacred--I won’t say by my love for my mother, for I don’t love her, and it would be extremely odd if I did--but I swear to you by my father’s memory that there is no foundation, none whatever, for any of the spiteful things that people dare to say of John Beacham’s wife. She’s not happy, poor little thing, certainly, but--” “Not happy? Why, what’s the matter with her? She’s got the best husband in the country, and the nicest house to live in--I declare I don’t know a more comfortable place than Pear-tree House--and the prettiest horse to ride, and--” “Yes, of course; all that is very nice; but then there’s the old woman.” “John’s mother? So she is the crumpled rose-leaf, eh?” “Well, yes, in some degree; but then John himself is partly to blame. You see, he does not understand Honor.” “That may be more his misfortune than his fault, poor fellow! But, Atty, I _am_ sorry to hear that you have come to _confidences_. I had an idea before all this that Honor was a quiet, good, honourable girl; and I know that the parson’s wife had the best possible opinion of her, when she was a girl, and used to teach a class at milady’s school; but what you say now makes me think her very far from either sensible or grateful--to say nothing of rectitude. When I know what a real good fellow John Beacham is, it seems such a shame of his wife to be complaining of him.” Arthur laughed. He felt, in his superior wisdom, that his brother knew wonderfully little of the qualities required by a woman in the man who aspires to her love. “Nonsense!” he said; “she doesn’t complain. One sees those things for oneself, without hearing about them. I never saw a gentler or a more forbearing creature than that dear little Irish girl, who is wretchedly out of place at Updown Paddocks. She is utterly wasted upon John, who, as you say, is the best fellow in the world, only so boorish compared to her, and so thoroughly unintellectual! Thinks of nothing from morning till night, and probably dreams of nothing _then_, but of his farm and breeding-stud. I declare that it seems the work of some horrible fate, some malicious demon, to have bound such a glorious woman as that to the side of a man so totally unsuited to her--so completely incapable of appreciating the beauty, and the delicacy, and the refinement--” Horace stopped him with a laugh.