conscious of a wish that he had not come to Paris at all. For the first time since he turned from the jeweller's window he thought of Dolores and her wistful innocent eyes. It was much better for a man's happiness to love some little rustic maiden who never saw but him, than a fashionable woman who lived upon the breath of flattery. Of course this was only an abstract idea-he hardly knew himself that he was illustrating it by Dolores and Mrs. Scarlett.

Guy is doomed to vexation. He has arranged to join the Vivians in their rooms, and go with them to the Café Anglais, to dine before the theatre.

As he enters, Mrs. Scarlett is standing by the window with a good-looking young fellow, who is in the act of buttoning her glove. He does not desist upon the entrance of a third person, nor does Milly draw away her hand—as indeed why should

she? Guy feels unaccountably irritated. Either this cursed young puppy, as he mentally designates him, is immensely awkward, or he has the most confounded assurance, for he takes about five minutes to accomplish his task, though the glove is not in the least tight.

“Thanks very much,” says Milly, smiling sweetly; and then turning to Guy

"I hate an unbuttoned glove. Don't you ?" she asks.

“I don't know. No, I don't think so. I don't much mind,” Guy answers, not in the least considering the question, but jealous of the service rendered.

He is fast developing a hitherto unknown trait in his character; it is the first time in his life he has ever been jealous—indeed, he is not in the least aware that what he feels at this moment is a barb of the green-eyed monster. This is a self-sufficient, impudent



young puppy he thinks, and he would rather like to kick him.

“ Awful bore an unbuttoned glove !" says our young plunger. “I say, Milly, I know I could button the first button of that other one, if you'll only let me try once more."

Mrs. Scarlett gives her hand, and Guy feels so annoyed that he is obliged to look another way until the operation is finished. Enter Charles Vivian hurriedly.

“I say we shall be confoundedly late. How are you, Thornton! Gertrude not here! As usual, of course. Couldn't be punctual for anything, I suppose, except my funeral. I daresay she'd manage that.”

“Oh! yes, dear,” echoes a laughing voice behind, “ I'll take care to be in time for that.”

“How are we to go—now I mean, not to your funeral ?"

“Oh! Thornton shall take you two in the carriage, and Guy and I will follow in a cab—eh, Guy ?”

Perhaps it would not be altogether correct to say that Guy assents cheerfully, but he assents, and that is all which is required of him.

“Nice young fellow, Thornton!” says Mr. Vivian. “Ah!” responds Guy, dubiously.

"Another victim of Milly Scarlett's. By Jove! I never saw anything like that woman, there seems to be some sorcery about her. This lad is only twenty now, and ’pon my soul I believe he thinks she's going to marry him.”

"I suppose he has known her a long time,” says Guy, a little stifly, thinking how he heard him call her by her name.

"O Lord! yes, she used to pet him when he was a boy at Eton, and she just married."


was a rum

“How long has her husband been dead ?"

“Four years; it was a rum match;" (reflectively).

“ Ah ?” says Guy, interrogatively.

“Biggest fool you ever saw, and she's such a clever one! The most curious part of it is, she was tremendously fond of him, and nearly went off her head when he broke his neck out hunting.”

“Money, I suppose ?" (tersely).

“Yes, by Jove ! her jointure was three thousand a year, and she doesn't lose it if she marries again."

This news does not please Guy. No woman ought to have money, he thinks to himself—no nice woman, at least.

“Of course that gives a handle to spiteful people to say men run after her for her money,” pursues Charles Vivian; “but I don't believe it makes an atom of difference in her case.”

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