was said; the men hardly knew that their remarks were derogatory to womanly dignity. It was their way of discussing such topics. But for Malcolm Forde it meant the ruin of that new scheme of life which he had made for himself. The airy fabric built by hope and love perished, like an enchanted city that melts into thin air at the breaking of a spell. He did not for a moment suspend his judgment, did not stay his wrath to consider how much or how little justification there might be for this careless talk.

These men spoke of facts-spoke of Elizabeth's engagement to the Viscount as a fact concerning which there could be no doubt. And she had doubtless given them ample justification for this idea. She had been constantly seen in his society. He 'spooning'-odious word!-in a manner that made his passion obvious to the eyes of all men.

Could he take this woman-her purity for ever tarnished by such contact-home to his heart? Was such a woman—who, with her faith plighted to him, could surrender herself to all the follies of the town, and link her name with yonder profligate-was such a woman worthy of the sacrifice he had been prepared to make for her-the sacrifice of the entire scheme of his life; theory and practice alike abandoned for her sake?

She would have made me a sensuous fool,' he thought; content to dawdle through life as her father has done, living at my ease, and making coals and beef and blankets the substitute for earnest labour among my flock. What might she not have made of me if my eyes had not been opened in time? I loved her so weakly.'

He put his passion already in the past tense. He had no thought of the possibility of his forgiving the woman who had deceived him so basely.

'Of course she meant all the time to marry Lord Paulyn, if he proposed to her. But in the mean while, for the mere amusement of an idle hour, she made love to me,' he thought bitterly, remembering that nothing had been farther from his thoughts than proposing to Elizabeth when she laid in wait for him that March night, and cut off his retreat for ever with the fatal magic of her beauty, and the tones and looks that went straight to his heart.

He must see her as soon as the play was over, must cast her out of his life at once and for ever, must make a swift sudden end of every link between them.

I might write to her,' he thought; but perhaps it would be better for us to meet once more face to face. If it is possible for her to justify herself, she

shall not be without the opportunity for such justification. But I know that it is impossible.'

When the curtain had fallen for the last time, and Elizabeth had curtseyed her acknowledgment of a shower of bouquets, and the enthusiasm in the parterre was still at its apogee, Mr. Forde departed. Not to-night would he break in upon her new existence. Let her taste all the delights of her triumph. Tomorrow would be time enough for the few quiet words that were needed for his eternal severance from the woman he had loved.

CHAPTER VI.

'Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part:
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so oleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.'

ELIZABETH was sitting alone in the shady back drawing-room on the morning after her triumph, carelessly robed in white muslin, pale, exhausted, languid as the lady in Hogarth's Marriage à la Mode.' Mrs. Chevenix was recruiting her forces, mental and physical, by prolonged and placid slumbers; but Elizabeth was not of the order of being who can sleep off the fumes of dissipation so easily. Her brief night had been a perpetual fever; the voice of adulation still in her ears; the lights, the faces of the crowd, still before her dazzled eyes; the passion and feeling of Peg Woffington still racking her heart. 'I wonder actresses don't all die young,' she thought, as

she tossed her weary head from side to side, vainly seeking slumber's calm haven.

Now she was lying on the sofa, prostrate, an unread novel in her hand, a cup of tea on a tiny table by her side, a fan and scent-bottle close at hand, for she had taken to her aunt's manner of sustaining life in its feebler moments.

She threw aside her novel presently, and unfurled her fan.

'I wish I were really an actress,' she thought; that would be a life worth living: to hear that thunder of applause every night, to see every eye fixed upon one, a vast audience listening with a breathless air and to move in a strange world-a world of dreams-and to love, and suffer, and despair, and rejoice, within the compass of a couple of hours. Yes, that is life!'

She smiled to herself as she wondered what her lover would think of such a life.

'I shall tell him all about it now that it is over,' she said to herself. If I had told him before, he would have given his veto against the whole business, I daresay. But he can hardly be very angry when I make a full confession of my misdemeanour, especially as it was for a charity. And I think he will be a little proud of my success, in spite of himself.'