Lieutenant Somerton did not dream of gods at all in the matter, and he would not have indulged his fancy upon such a cynical fellow as Asmodeo for a moment; he was in love, over head and ears, madly in love with this woman, who thrust that wooden spoon into the bowl at the roadside inn, and ate her share of the repast like--well, like a vagabond, as she was, you know, in the eyes of the law--like a rogue and vagabond; for the law combines the two in its harsh description of the poor stroller. The Lieutenant would surely have been disenchanted if Signor Asmodeo had taken the bandage from his eyes and shown him that incident in the past; or that little scene in the show when Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, his dire enemy, had made love to her, and succeeded in his suit. What a clever girl she was! The god “so gloriously celebrated by Agrippa and the Clavicula Salomonis,” and his friend Don Cleofas would have been delighted with her. His Spanish majesty would surely have painted her image on his cloak, and illustrated her curious and brilliant career! One fine summer evening, when a gentle rain had washed the dust out of the two trees which lived out a shambling sort of existence at the back of the house where Mrs. Dibble consented to act the part of guardian to that poor persecuted orphan, whom she loved as if she were her own--on a bright summer evening when the sun was shining out after the rain, and a refreshing breeze came up the Thames and moved the leaves of the trees in question, Chrissy leaned upon Paul Somerton’s shoulder, and told him that she must leave him on the next day. She was now quite well, she said, and her gratitude to him for his great kindness compelled her to take this course. His honourable and respectful conduct towards her, and her love for him, too, all urged departure. She had deceived him, deceived him wickedly, and had never until now felt courage enough to tell him how much she had wronged him. Paul grew terribly alarmed at her earnest words, and begged her not to tell him, not to talk of leaving him. Where could she go? He could not live without her. O, that cursed marriage! O cruel Fate that had not brought her to him in the days of her early life! It seemed to him, he said, that he had known her always. Her face was familiar to him when first he saw her. Paul had often said this, and poor Chrissy felt satisfied in her own mind that he must have seen that mysterious lady of the Temple of Magic; but, of course, she never assisted his memory one jot, and if memory had given him a quiet nudge in connection with his visit to Severntown with Mrs. Dibble, he would have repudiated the suggestion with scorn.