Superbly lovely, certainly, if art can create loveliness, with delicately tinted cheeks and whitened skin; her raven hair arranged, according to the prevailing mode, so as to add as much as possible to her height. Dressed, or rather undressed—for women then wore only little above the waist—in richest orange and crimson; her bare arms and bosom sparkling with jewels—none brighter, though, than these bold and brilliant eyes—there she stood, more like her namesake Empress Theodora than ever, and flashed lightnings into my face—disappointment, rage, scorn, but no trace of fear. ‘And what, pray, does Monsieur Brownlow wish at such an hour of the night?’ ‘Nothing, Mademoiselle,’ I answered gravely and humbly. ‘I came to see Lord Hartover, and he is not, I perceive, at home.’ Was she going to shut the door on me? Nothing less. Whether from sheer shamelessness, or whether—as I have often fancied since—she read my errand in my face, she composed herself in an instant, becoming amiable and gracious. ‘Could not Monsieur come in and wait? Would he not stay and sup with us?’ I bowed courteously. She was so superb, so daringly mistress of herself, I could do no less; and said I should be shocked at interrupting such a _tête-à-tête_. I apologised for having brought her to the door on so cold a night; and, raising my hat, departed, having, at least, taken care to tell her nothing. Why should I not depart? Had I not seen enough, and more than enough? The Rusher was right so far—for who was I to interfere? What had I to offer Hartover as against that gorgeous and voluptuous figure? If my suspicions could be proved, and I succeeded in parting him from her, would he not go to someone else? And who was I, after all, to judge her, to say hard words to her? If she were dazzled by him, what wonder? If he by her, what wonder either?—Ah! that they had let him marry Nellie, boy though he was, two years ago! But such is not the way of the world; and the way of the world, it seemed, he was doomed to go.—Oh! weary life, wherein all effort for good seemed but as filling the sieve of the Danaides. Oh! weary work for clean living and righteousness, which seemed as a rolling of Sisyphus’ stone for ever up the hill, to see it roll down again. What profit has a man of all his labour? That which has been shall again be, and there is no new thing under the sun. I went back to Cambridge unhappy, all but cynical and despairing, and settled down to my routine of work again, and to the tender attentions of Mr. Halidane, to whom however I told no word about my fruitless expedition to London. And so sad was I, and in such a state of chronic irritation did Halidane keep me, that I verily believe I should have fallen ill, had not the fresh evil been compensated for by a fresh good—and that good taken the form of renewed intercourse with Mr. Braithwaite. CHAPTER XXVI.