Mrs. Milward was a handsome, impulsive, kind-hearted woman of forty five; her arched, dark eye-brows and a wonderful natural complexion gave her a fictitious air of youth—slightly discounted by a comfortable and matronly figure. Some declared that her round face, short nose, and large eyes produced a resemblance to a well-to-do pussy cat, but this was the voice of envy. She had a clever maid, dressed well, and with the exception of the loss of her husband, had never known a care; there was scarcely a line or wrinkle on her charming soft face. Now, with her girl happily married, and her boy in the Army, she felt a free woman, and was anxious to try her wings—and her liberty! Though popular with rich and poor, she was by no means a perfect character; extraordinarily indiscreet and rash in her confidences—there was no secret cupboard in her composition—she threw open all her mental stores and also those of her intimates. Aware of this failing, she would deplore it and say: “Don’t tell me any important secrets, my dear—for I can never keep them, in spite of my good resolutions. They will jump out and play about among my latest news and good stories.” That night in their cabin, as she and her charge talked and discussed their fellow passengers, the life history of Douglas was her principal topic. With considerable detail, she related his happy prospects and the shattering of these; told of his cultured father and odious, underbred mother, whom she particularly detested; spoke of his withdrawal from old friends, lest he might seem to sponge, and how, instead of being in the Army serving his country like her own boy, enjoying his youth and a comfortable allowance, he was stuck in a gloomy City office, drawing a miserable salary, and enduring the whims and temper of an empty-headed, selfish parent. “She married again the other day,” added Mrs. Milward, “a rich Jew. I’ve not a word to say against the Jews—a marvellously clever race; in fact, I think a little Jew blood gives brains; and as to riches, of course there’s no harm in _them_; but this Manasseh Levison is so common and fat, and seems to reek of furniture polish and money. I’ve seen him at ‘the Mulberry’ at tea, gobbling cakes like a glutton and making such a noise. Oh, what a contrast to Mr. Shafto, so aristocratic and so courteous—a man whom it seemed almost a privilege to know!” And in this strain, Mrs. Milward, reclining in her berth, chattered on, whilst her companion brushed her heavy, dark hair, and imbibed a strong feeling of interest and pity for the good-looking hero of her chaperon’s impressive sketch. Quite unintentionally this voluble lady had enlisted the mutual sympathy of these young people; she had laid, so to speak, a match; whether a mutual liking would ignite it or not was uncertain—but the prospect was favourable. CHAPTER X THE LAND OF PROMISE