“And is not the pretty pouting niece to be admitted to this sport?” asked Rashleigh. “By no means,” replied Foxwell, with a frown. “She has elected to keep out of all our amusements, we can spare her company in this. If the young prude finds satisfaction in holding aloof, for God’s sake let her do so. She disapproves of so many things we do and say, ’tis very like she would disapprove of this. Threatening a ghost with a cudgel, egad!—she might take it into her head to play the spoil-sport—you know the malice of excessive virtue.” So nothing was spoken of the matter at dinner. This meal—which occurred at the London hour, in the late afternoon—was now the only regular occasion upon which Georgiana joined the company. For the passing of her days, she had her books, the care of her wardrobe and apartments, her music, drawing, embroidery, and walks—for she took these, though never on the side of the house toward the park, lest Everell might risk his safety by approaching her. She still met that gentleman each evening, at a later hour now than at first; and he it was that occupied her thoughts all the day, whatever the employment of her hands and feet. She acknowledged to herself her love for him, and wondered, sometimes with hope but oftener with deep misgiving, what the end would be. At times she had a poignant sense of the danger he was in by remaining near her, but she shrank even then from sending him away, for their separation must be long and might be eternal. As deeply as he, though less vehemently, did she lament the circumstances that compelled them to be secret and brief in their meetings. She was by no means of that romantic turn of mind which would have made the affair the more attractive for being clandestine. People who do romantic things are not necessarily people of romantic notions: it is a resolute fidelity to some cause or purpose, that leads many a generous but matter-of-fact hero or heroine into romantic situations. Indeed, is it ever otherwise with your true hero and your true heroine? Are not the others but shams, or at best poseurs? Georgiana followed courageously where love led; but because she really loved, and not because the conditions were romantic: she was no Lydia Languish—she would joyfully have dispensed with the romance. On this particular evening, the conversation at dinner took a turn which gave it a disquieting significance to her, though she bore no part in it herself. Lady Strange had mentioned a certain young lord as having died because he preferred his love to his life. Foxwell had politely laughed. Lady Strange had somewhat offendedly stood by her assertion, whereupon Foxwell had declared the thing unknown in nature. Mrs. Winter supported him; but Rashleigh took his cousin’s side, saying, “What! no man ever died for love, then? Surely there have been cases, Bob.”