Lord Mallow had never forgotten his delight at finding a young lady thoroughly acquainted with the history of his native land, thoroughly interested in Erin's struggles and Erin's hopes; a young lady who knew all about the Protestants of Ulster, and what was meant by Fixity of Tenure. He came to Lady Mabel naturally in his triumphs, and he came to her in his disappointments. She was pleased and flattered by his faith in her wisdom, and was always ready to lend a gracious ear. She, whose soul was full of ambition, was deeply interested in the career of an ambitious young man--a man who had every excuse for being shallow and idle, and yet was neither. "If Roderick were only like him there would be nothing wanting in my life," she thought regretfully. "I should have felt much a pride in a husband's fame, I should have worked so gladly to assist him in his career. The driest blue-books would not have been too weary for me--the dullest drudgery of parliamentary detail would have been pleasant work, if it could have helped him in his progress to political distinctions." One evening, when Mabel and Lord Mallow were standing in the embrasure of a window, walled in by the crowd of aristocratic nobodies and intellectual eccentricities, talking earnestly of poor Erin and her chances of ultimate happiness, the lady, almost unawares, quoted a couplet of her own which seemed peculiarly applicable to the argument. "Whose lines are those?" Lord Mallow asked eagerly; "I never heard them before." Mabel blushed like a schoolgirl detected in sending a valentine. "Upon my soul," cried the Irishman, "I believe they are your own! Yes, I am sure of it. You, whose mind is so high above the common level, must sometimes express yourself in poetry. They are yours, are they not?" "Can you keep a secret?" Lady Mabel asked shyly. "For you? Yes, on the rack. Wild horses should not tear it out of my heart; boiling lead, falling on me drop by drop, should not extort it from me." "The lines are mine. I have written a good deal--in verse. I am going to publish a volume, anonymously, before the season is over. It is quite a secret. No one--except mamma and papa, and Mr. Vawdrey--knows anything about it." "How proud they--how especially proud Mr. Vawdrey must be of your genius," said Lord Mallow. "What a lucky fellow he is." He was thinking just at that moment of Violet Tempest, to whose secret preference for Roderick Vawdrey he attributed his own rejection. And now here--where again he might have found the fair ideal of his youthful dreams--here where he might have hoped to form an alliance at once socially and politically advantageous--this young Hampshire's squire was before him. "I don't think Mr. Vawdrey is particularly interested in my poetical efforts," Lady Mabel said with assumed carelessness. "He doesn't care for poetry. He likes Byron."