“But really, Alice,” said Charley, coming to my rescue, “that chapter of yours—such as it is,—now no offence,—I mean giving, as it does, a love-passage from a woman’s point of view, is very well done. And one thing, Jack, seems to me especially to be commended. It is positively artistic, the way in which she contrives to cast a shadow upon the pair, as they sit basking in the sunshine of—ah—in fact—sunshine of young love—ahem—match, Jack—thank you—ahem.” Charley reddened a little, conscious of having been betrayed into an unwonted burst of eloquence. “And very cleverly indeed,” added he, “that shadow is wrought by the very flash of light which will give our readers a momentary glimpse of certain lines in the nature of poor Dory, which you had not previously brought out.” “_Inexorabilis acer_,” said I, musing. “Oh, yes,” said Alice, turning to her husband; “how often have I heard you apply those words to your poor friend. They are not to be found—in—Virgil? At any rate, I cannot recall such a passage.” “No; they are part of a verse in which Horace gives a characterization of Achilles.” CHAPTER LIII. I have said that Mary was romantic; and I don’t know that I could give any clearer proof of the fact than this: as she lay sleepless that night, reviewing the scenes and events of the last few months, and more especially of the preceding day,—as she lay there silently pondering, and realized that she knew nothing of the history, and was far from sure that she knew even the name of the man to whom she had so thoroughly committed herself,—she felt no wish that matters stood otherwise. Nay, she even found herself rejoicing in the cloud of mystery that surrounded her lover; and, to tell the truth, it was with a feeling of relief that she had heard the sound of footsteps and the hum of voices, the day before, announcing the return from the Hall, just as she had gathered from the Don’s manner that he was on the verge of a revelation. But they had been interrupted, and she had, for one more day, at least, the privilege—a delicious one to a girl of her temperament—of allowing her imagination, unshackled by hard fact, to play around this strangely interesting man, who had shot like a meteor athwart her path. Singularly enough,—or it would have been strange, did we not all know the confidence without reserve which a woman ever places in the man to whom she has given her heart,—strangely enough, Mary felt not the slightest misgiving on the score of the revelation she had reason to look for on the morrow. She had not the least dread that that revelation might prove of such a character as to make imperative an instant breaking off of relations with the Don. What she dreaded was the dispersal of her illusions, the end of her sweet dreams. To-day she could imagine—to-morrow she would know.