“Passion—no more!” says Lady Fanny, her fine lips hardening. “Bas would give the world in haste for any trinket he wanted, and repent at leisure, and his victims with him. Pity me no longer, my dear. I think my tears were the distillation of anger, though indeed I scarce know my own heart yet. Give me time to consider, and tell me what you have in view, for surely the world turns topsy-turvey when— Heaven help us!—I can scarce believe it! Bolton also! Do the men run mad? But he was safe in his offer. That woman, his wife, will outlive us all.” The Duchess resumed her seat, but took her friend’s hand. “I had rather hear you own you loved him—I can’t tell why, but ’tis so. Better pain than self-scorn.” Lady Fanny laughed as sweet but not as true as the bird’s song. “What use to give a diamond when a string of glass beads would be preferred? And if lost, they matter much less. Rejoice with me, Kitty, since the beads are lost, that they were glass and never saw Golconda. Now spare my pride, and let us speak of Bolton. What would you have?” “I would have a good man and a good woman made happy,” says the courageous Duchess—“and if not after the world’s way, then after their own. Bolton’s life is like a wasting river lost in the sands, Diana’s is one of such danger and dread as I don’t like to consider.” “Well, since rank is nothing, and good blood but to be puddled with base, and honour a mere jest, would you have him marry her? But sure you know he lost his chance to have the marriage dissolved, and a man that’s _your_ friend has little chance with the King at present.” “True for you, Fanny. No hope that way. Then I would—don’t so stare at me! I would have them live together as man and wife and trust to the future with hope and love to gild it.” “A thing often done!” says Lady Fanny bitterly—“and you and I—we know our world and how it ends. Two years at the most, tears, regrets, a pension, and then the woman takes up with some one else. Look at Mrs. Oldfield. First Mainwaring. Then Churchill.” “My Lady Fanny little understands either Bolton or his Diana in speaking thus, and I thought your wit sharp as a diamond. She is no wanton, and he—. His heart is aching, dying for love and a home and a fond woman to welcome him in it. He has tasted the pleasures—Yes, Fanny—but with weariness always, with sick distaste. I know not a man more to be pitied. And he loves this girl. He is true and tender—he would repay no love with pain. Least of all hers. Consider! You must help me judge. You half thought me jesting t’other night. I am in sober earnest.” “And this lady who spurns coronets—will she take up the position you offer, Kitty? Will he offer it? I think you talk wild. Will he bear to see her scorned? O, let me go home! I’m sick of the world we live in—mortally sick. A fine task for us truly to help a man to his mistress!”