Nelly's face and even her neck became crimson, and her eyes flashed indignantly; but she repressed the passionate words that were almost on her lips, and taking the photograph from him, replaced it in the drawer, and turned the key. “Has Marion written to you?” asked he, after a pause. “Only a few lines. I 'm afraid she 's not very happy in her exalted condition, after all, for she concluded with these words: 'It is a cruel blow that has befallen you, but don't fancy that there are not miseries as hard to bear in life as those which display themselves in public and flaunt their sufferings before the world.'” “That old fop's temper, perhaps, is hard to bear with,” said he, carelessly. “You must write to George L'Estrange, Gusty,” said she, coaxingly. “There are no letters he likes so much as yours. He says you are the only one who ever knew how to advise without taking that tone of superiority that is so offensive, and he needs advice just now,--he is driven half wild with dictation and interference.” She talked on in this strain for some time, till he grew gradually calmer; and his features, losing their look of intensity and eagerness, regained their ordinary expression of gentleness and quiet. “Do you know what was passing through my mind just now?” said he, smiling half sadly. “I was wishing it was George had been Marion's husband instead of Lord Culduff. We 'd have been so united, the very narrowness of our fortunes would have banded us more closely together, and I believe, firmly believe, we might have been happier in these days of humble condition than ever we were in our palmy ones; do you agree with me, Nelly?” Her face was now crimson; and if Augustus had not been the least observant of men, he must have seen how his words had agitated her. She merely said, with affected indifference, “Who can tell how these things would turn out? There 's a nice gleam of sunlight, Gusty. Let us have a walk. I'll go for my hat.” She fled from the room before he had time to reply, and the heavy clap of a door soon told that she had reached her chamber. CHAPTER XXXIV. AT LOUVAIN There are few delusions more common with well-to-do people than the belief that if “put to it” they could earn their own livelihood in a variety of ways. Almost every man has some two or three or more accomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support; and remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever been hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous dislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional, who, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own performance.