“Well, my dear boy, so it might have been, but I don’t think it was.” “What do you think then?” said Guy, anxiously. “Don’t be afraid to tell me, old fellow.” “Look here, then. You are a handsome young gaillard—just the sort that women like, the worse luck for you!—& I haven’t a doubt your cousin (she shall not be named) fell in love with you. But—taking a slight liberty with the proverb—“fall in love in haste, repent at leisure”—How much have you got to support a wife on?” “Deucedly little,” said Guy, bitterly. “Exactly. And you like to live like a swell, & have plenty of money to pitch in the gutter, when society requires it of you. Now, I dare say your cousin knows this.” “Well?” “Well—& she has more good sense & just as much heart as most young ladies of our advanced civilization. She has had the wit to see what you, poor fool, sublimely overlooked—that what is comfort for one is pinching for two (or—ahem! three)—& the greater wit to tell you so before it is too late.” Jack paused, & looked Guy directly in the face. “Do you understand?” “I don’t know…I…for Heaven’s sake, Jack, out with it,” groaned the lover. Jack’s look was of such deep, kindly pity as we cast on a child, whom we are going to tell that its goldfish is dead or its favourite toy broken. “My poor boy,” he said, gently, “don’t you see that you have been—jilted?”—

Chapter IV

The End of the Idyl

“Through you, whom once I loved so well—

Through you my life will be accursed.”

Georgie had just come home from a ride to the meet with Lord Breton, on the day after her engagement to that venerable peer, when her mother called to her that there was a letter on her table upstairs in Guy’s handwriting. Georgie changed colour; she had not expected this, & had thought to cast off “the old love” more easily. It came now like a ghost that steals between the feaster & his wine-cup; a ghost of old wrongs that he thought to have laid long ago but that rises again & again to cast a shadow on life’s enjoyments. Georgie, however, determined to take the bull by the horns, & went up to her room at once; but she paused a moment before the pier-glass to smile back at the reflection of her trim figure in the dark folds of a faultless habit, & crowned by the most captivating little “topper” from under which a few little brown curls would escape, despite the precaution which Georgie of course always took to brush them back into their place. Then, setting her saucy, rosebud mouth firmly, she turned from the glass & opened Guy’s letter. If she had not been very angry at his having written at all, she might have been in danger of giving Lord Breton the slip, & coming back to her first choice; for she did love Guy, though such a poor, self-despising thing as love could have no legitimate place in the breast of the worldly-wise Miss Rivers! But she was angry with Guy, & having read his appeal tore it up, stamped her foot & nearly broke her riding-whip in the outburst of her rage. After that, she locked her door, & threw herself into what she called her “Crying-chair”; a comfortable, cushioned seat which had been the confidante of many a girlish fit of grief & passion. Having cried her eyes into the proper shade of pinkness, all the while complaining bitterly of Guy’s cruelty & the hardness of the world, & her own unhappy fate, she began to think that his letter must nevertheless be answered, & having bathed her injured lids and taken an encouraging look at Lord Breton’s ruby flashing on her left hand, she wrote thus:

My dear Guy: I don’t think I deserved your reproaches, or, if I did, you must see that I am not worth your love. But I will tell you everything plainly. Knowing (as I said before) that we could never be happy together, I have engaged myself to Lord Breton. You will thank me some day for finding our feelings out & releasing you before it was too late—though of course I expect you to be angry with me now. Believe me, I wish that we may always be friends; & it is for that reason that I speak to you so frankly. My engagement to Lord Breton will not be announced yet. With many wishes for your happiness, Yours

“Georgina” Rivers.

To Guy Hastings Esqr. Swift’s Club, Regent St. London W.

Georgie was clever & politic enough to know that such desperate measures were the only ones which could put an end to this unpleasant matter; but she was really sorry for Guy & wanted to make the note as kind & gentle as possible. Perhaps Guy felt the sting none the less that it was so adroitly sheathed in protestations of affection & unworthiness. He was alone in the motley apartment, half-studio, half smoking-room & study, which opened off his bedroom at his London lodgings. He had not had the heart to stay at the Club after he had breakfasted; but pocketed Georgie’s note (which was brought to him there) & went home at once. Inevitable business had detained him in town the day before, but he had determined to run down to West Adamsborough that morning, having prepared Georgie by his note.