yes, by all the principles of holy religion, by all the rules of society, by all the teaching which inculcated submission, patience, and waiting to be chosen, caused this young man to deserve punishment—condign, sharp, exemplary. And yet—what did this mean? Constance felt her heart go forth to him. She loved him the more for his masterfulness; she was prouder of herself because of his great passion.

That was what she thought afterwards. What she did, when she began to recover, was to free herself and hide her burning face in her hands.

"Edward," she whispered, "we are mad. And I, who should have known better, am the more culpable. Let us forget this moment. Let us respect each other. Let us be silent."

"Respect?" he echoed. "Why, who could respect you, Constance, more than I do? Silence? Yes, for a while. Forget? Never!"

"It is wrong, it is irreligious," she faltered.

"Wrong! Oh, Constance, let us not, between ourselves, talk the foolish unrealities of school and pulpit."

"Oh, Edward!"—she looked about her in terror—"for Heaven's sake do not blaspheme. If any were to hear you. . . . For words less rebellious men have been sent to the prisons for life."

He laughed. This young infidel laughed at law as he laughed at religion.

"Have patience," Constance went on, trying to get into her usual frame of mind; but she was shaken to the very foundation, and at the moment actually felt as if her religion was turned upside down and her allegiance transferred to the Perfect Man. "Have patience, Edward; you will yet win through to the higher faith. Many a young man overpowered by his strength, as you have been, has had his doubts, and yet has landed at last upon the solid rock of truth."

Edward made no reply to this, not even by a smile. It was not a moment in which the ordinary consolations of religion, so freely offered by women to men, could touch his soul. He took out his watch and remarked that the time was getting on, and that the Chancellor's appointment must be kept.

"With her ladyship, I suppose," he said, "we shall find the painted, ruddled, bewigged old hag who has the audacity to ask me—me—in marriage."

Constance caught his hand.

"Edward! cousin! are you mad? Are you proposing to seek a prison at once? Hag? old? painted? ruddled? And this of the Duchess of Dunstanburgh? Are you aware that the least of these charges is actionable at common law? For my sake, Edward, if not your own, be careful."

"I will, sweet Constance. And for your sake, just to our two selves, I repeat that the painted—"

"Oh!"

"The ruddled—"

"Oh, hush!"

"The bewigged—"

"Edward!"

"Old hag—do you hear?—OLD HAG shall never marry me."

Once more this audacious and unmanly lover, who respected nothing, seized her by the waist and kissed her lips. Once more Lady Carlyon felt that unaccountable weakness steal upon her, so that she was bewildered, faint, and humiliated. For a moment she lay still and acquiescent in his arms. Worse than all, the door opened and Professor Ingleby surprised her in this compromising situation.

"Upon my word!" she said, with a smile upon her lips; "upon my word, my lord—Constance—if her Grace of Dunstanburgh knew this! Children, children!"—she laid her withered hand upon Constance's head—"I pray that this thing may be. But we want time. Let us keep Lord Chester's appointment. And, as far as you can, leave to me, my lord, your old tutor, the task of speech. I know the Duchess, and I know the Chancellor. It may be that the oil of persuasion will be more efficacious than the lash of contradiction. Let me try."

They stood confused—even the unblushing front of the lover reddened.

"I have thought of a way of getting time.