There are some follies to which womanhood on the sunny side of twenty is prone to stoop, and Miss Crawford was weak enough to be just a little intoxicated by the homage she received in the character of Thomas Lobyer's plighted wife and a little inclined to forget that the enjoyment of all the glories and grandeurs derived from Mr. Lobyer's wealth involved a life-long alliance with Mr. Lobyer himself. And if the modern Iphigenia is so base a creature as to immolate herself of her own free will before the hymeneal altar, she is rarely without some kind female relation to urge her to the fatal step, and to push her forward with relentless hand, should she shrink from the consummation of the sacrifice. Aunt Jane lost no opportunity of vaunting her niece's good fortune, or of praising Mr. Lobyer--who, for his part, was barely civil to the obliging matron, and was apt to lapse into a state of despondent sulkiness when he found her in constant attendance upon her niece. No, for the modern Iphigenia there is no such thing as turning back. The days hurried by the plighted bride with relentless haste. The obsequious upholsterer bade his men work night and day, in order that the Pevenshall splendour should be completed in due time. The coachmaker of Hatton Garden would have immolated himself on the floor of his workshop rather than have disappointed such a customer as Mr. Lobyer. The inestimable young women worked as if for a wager. The French milliner who made Miss Crawford's gala-dresses declared that she had broken faith with duchesses in order to keep her promises to the future Mrs. Lobyer. Flo tried to count the days that yet remained of her unfettered girlhood, but they seemed to slip away from her with a rapidity that defied all powers of calculation. Aunt Jane grew busier and busier as the days grew fewer; and the servants' bell at the Fountains had little rest from the hands of tradesmen's boys. Flo's pretty bed-chamber was transformed into a chaos of parcels and bonnet-boxes, trunks and packing-cases. Glittering caskets of perfumery, mother-of-pearl glove-boxes, and enamelled handkerchief-boxes, wonderful boudoir inkstands in lapis-lazuli and ormolu, embroidered sachets, and perfumed pincushions,--all the feminine delights of M. Rimmel's emporium,--were scattered upon dressing-tables and writing-tables, waiting to be packed. Every day the industrious females at work in the spare bed-room brought some newly-finished garment to swell the heap of silk and moire, muslin and cashmere, that was piled upon the sofa. Flo contemplated all these treasures with a bewildered face sometimes when she was quite alone; and there was some shadow of sadness in the bewilderment of her countenance. "I wonder whether I am much better or wiser than the savages who are so fond of beads and feathers," she thought.