“Hm!” Brayder put up his mouth and rapped the handle of his cane on his chin. “That’s disagreeable, Mount. You don’t exactly want to act in that character. You haven’t got a diploma. Bother!” “Do you think I love her a bit less?” broke out my lord in a frenzy. “By heaven! I’d read to her by her bedside, and talk that infernal history to her, if it pleased her, all day and all night.” “You’re evidently graduating for a midwife, Mount.” The nobleman appeared silently to accept the imputation. “What do they say in town?” he asked again. Brayder said the sole question was, whether it was maid, wife, or widow. “I’ll go to her this evening,” Mountfalcon resumed, after—to judge by the cast of his face—reflecting deeply. “I’ll go to her this evening. She shall know what infernal torment she makes me suffer.” “Do you mean to say she don’t know it?” “Hasn’t an idea—thinks me a friend. And so, by heaven! I’ll be to her.” “A—hm!” went the Honourable Peter. “This way to the sign of the Green Man, ladies!” “Do you want to be pitched out of the window, Brayder?” “Once was enough, Mount. The Salvage Man is strong. I may have forgotten the trick of alighting on my feet. There—there! I’ll be sworn she’s excessively innocent, and thinks you a disinterested friend.” “I’ll go to her this evening,” Mountfalcon repeated. “She shall know what damned misery it is to see her in such a position. I can’t hold out any longer. Deceit’s horrible to such a girl as that. I’d rather have her cursing me than speaking and looking as she does. Dear little girl!—she’s only a child. You haven’t an idea how sensible that little woman is.” “Have you?” inquired the cunning one. “My belief is, Brayder, that there are angels among women,” said Mountfalcon, evading his parasite’s eye as he spoke. To the world, Lord Mountfalcon was the thoroughly wicked man; his parasite simply ingeniously dissipated. Full many a man of God had thought it the easier task to reclaim the Hon. Peter. Lucy received her noble friend by firelight that evening, and sat much in the shade. She offered to have the candles brought in. He begged her to allow the room to remain as it was. “I have something to say to you,” he observed with a certain solemnity. “Yes—to me?” said Lucy, quickly. Lord Mountfalcon knew he had a great deal to say, but how to say it, and what it exactly was, he did not know.’ “You conceal it admirably,” he began, “but you must be very lonely here—I fear, unhappy.” “I should have been lonely, but for your kindness, my lord,” said Lucy. “I am not unhappy.” Her face was in shade and could not belie her. “Is there any help that one who would really be your friend might give you, Mrs. Feverel?” “None indeed that I know of,” Lucy replied. “Who can help us to pay for our sins?” “At least you may permit me to endeavour to pay my debts, since you have helped me to wash out some of any sins.”