be the wife of a country gentleman whose income required prudent, thrifty handling, if the traditional state of The Court was to be maintained. Geoffrey thought her beauty justified the vanity, and as for the selfishness, greed and thriftlessness, they were qualities which he distinctly refused to admit she possessed. His love for her was beautiful in its strength, trust and intensity. There were moments when her coldness made his heart feel chilled, but they were brief, for he was always prompt with the explanation to himself, that this was only the sweet modesty and reserve of a pure, high-bred English girl, and that she would well requite him for it when she became his wife. His awakening from this beautifully-delusive dream was not a long-drawnout process by any means. His wife showed him a taste of her quality on their wedding-day, when he made his first suggestion to her as her husband. It had been arranged that the young couple should spend a fortnight in Scotland, and then give themselves a week in London before they came back to settle for good at The Court. But this programme no longer suited the lady who in the interim had become Lord Roydmore's daughter. "I don't mean to go to Scotland, Geoffrey," she said decidedly, when he spoke about taking tickets to go north by the night mail; "and I won't put my foot in London until papa has a house fit to receive me in, and the days of mourning for grandpapa is over. We'll go to Paris."

"But, my darling, we sha'n't enjoy ourselves, or have half as much fun there as in London. I know London so well, and in

Paris I shall be all at sea."

He was not strong in any language but his own mother tongue, this fine young English gentleman, who had been to a public school, and to Oxford; and he knew that humiliation would be his portion, to say nothing of intense weariness, if Florence persisted in dragging him to Paris, and took him to theatres where he would not understand a word the actors were saying. But Florence was not to be turned from her new scheme.

Oh, you'll enjoy yourself very well, Geoffrey; we'll go to races and things of that sort on Sundays, and brush off our insular cobwebs. Don't be alarmed; I'll do all the order-giving and talking. To Paris we'll go; I've made up my mind to it." He offered but faint opposition after this, for above all things

he desired to please her, and to keep the frowns away from her lovely face. But all the time he was vaguely conscious that he was a fool for surrendering his plans so readily to her caprices, and the idea of Paris was obnoxious to him.

Not more obnoxious than the reality. He knew no one, and was perfectly ignorant of what were the right things to do, and where were the right places to go to. Florence enjoyed the shops, and the theatres, and the open-air gaieties like a child; but young Mr. Graves sustained the reputation his countrymen have gained, and took his pleasures very sadly.

It was like finding water in a dry land to him when one day he met an old school-fellow, now a dashing and distinguishing infantry man. This Captain Stafford had been a hero in Geoffrey's eyes in the old school days, on account of his skill and prowess in all kinds of athletic and field sports. He was more of a hero than ever now to the simple country gentleman, who had never seen a shot fired in anger in his life—for Harry Stafford had seen some smart service lately, had distinguished himself for personal gallantry, and wore the grandest recognition of that gallantry which an Englishman can gainthe V.C.

Beyond this, Captain Stafford was a brilliant and accomplished gentleman, who knew his Paris well, and who, consequently, made life there a very different thing to what it had been before his advent to the two benighted people, who had been merely groping about before he came. He was "good to be seen with," also. Every one who knew him was proud, in these days, to be recognised by gallant, dashing, handsome Harry Stafford. Accordingly, Florence decreed, and Geoffrey assented, not at all unwillingly, that they should spend yet another fortnight in the City of Pleasures. Captain Stafford was the perfection of a guide, and Geoffrey knew him to be one of the best and most honourable fellows in the world. Nevertheless, he did sometimes experience some outsider sensations when his wife and Captain Stafford were laughing heartily at some delicate pleasantry in a play, which to Mr. Graves was a mere jumble of unintelligible gibberish.

"He is the handsomest and finest, as well as the most fascinating fellow I ever saw or dreamt of," Mrs. Graves admitted to herself, when the day of parting came, and she was shaking

hands with him for the last time. "Now, if Geoffrey were like him, I shouldn't so much mind going back to The Court."

She sighed petulantly as she thought this, and the sound made Captain Stafford look up suddenly and meet her eyes. Whatever he read there it displeased him apparently, for he turned from her rather haughtily and coldly, and directed all his attention, during the last moments of their being together, to Geoffrey.

"Come and see us in September," the latter was saying heartily. "I've never gone in for breeding pheasants, as I told you, but the place swarms with partridges."

"And by the time you come I will have learnt the guitar, and then we can have some duets," Mrs. Graves put in as an extra inducement; and there came a very curious look in her eyes, a sort of danger-signal, when he made answer coolly :

"Thank you, Mrs. Graves, but I'm boor enough to devote myself entirely to my gun in September. I only fool with the guitar when I can get neither shooting nor hunting."

"You shall always do quite as you please at The Court," she said smilingly. "I mean to make it a perfect Liberty Hall to those guests of whom I approve."

"And a perfect Hell to those whom you don't like, including your husband," Captain Stafford thought, as he turned away from the beautiful woman to whom he had taken one of those instinctive dislikes, which no amount of flattering courtesy from the disliked one can abolish.

"She's not half good enough for poor old Geof," the fine, keen-eyed soldier thought angrily. "And he thinks her an angel, and has tears in his eyes when he speaks of her sweet goodness in marrying him. She'll play the devil with him in some way, but I don't think it will be by intrigue; she's too selfish to risk anything for any human being. But he'll have to repent having won his angel in some way or other, if I am not very much mistaken."

Meantime, Geoffrey was assuring Florence that, happy as he had been in the companionship of his old friend, it was an absolute relief to see the last of him. "For now I shall have you to myself again, my own," he said ardently.

"Only till we get to The Court, Geof," she replied coolly. "I

am not going to live like a nun, simply because grandpapa died six weeks ago."

"It won't be a very conventual kind of existence, considering you will have your husband with you, dear."

"Oh! you don't count," she said brusquely.

“We should rust, and rasp each other horribly if we lived the Darby and Joan life. The best authorities on the subject declare that monotony is the bane of married life, and I believe them!" "I could never feel it monotonous while I had you, Flo." "Then you must be a very dull and plodding-minded person, Geof, and the sooner you grow less stolid the better. Now, I love change and excitement, and I'm honest enough to admit it. I shall like The Court well enough while it's all new to me, but as soon as it begins to pall upon me, I shall go up to town and stay with papa.”

"You can't be always running away from your own home," he said, more sternly than his wife had ever heard him speak before. But that fearless young lady was by no means crushed by his displeasure.

"We'll argue the matter out when I want to run away," she laughed; "but I can assure you I am not going to let Jane reap all the advantages which are gained by papa's coming to the title and property."

"Poor Jane! she hasn't had a very lively existence hitherto," Geoffrey said, smiling as he recalled the way in which Jane had been wont to scuffle out of the way of smart visitors into the shade, in order that the shabbiness of her skimpy little frocks might not bring discredit upon the Herries' household. "Why do you say 'poor' Jane?" his wife interrogated sharply; "it was rather poor me,' I think, in those horrible old Bath days. I have a natural love of beauty, and order, and refinement. Jane would just as soon wear hideous things as not, and I can tell you her room was like a rag shop unless I stood over her and made her tidy it up. 'Poor Jane,' indeed! Why, she's one of the luckiest girls in London, and if she only makes the best of herself, she ought to make a capital marriage. Now, I am cut out of all that, yet you don't pity me!"

"It was not possible that Flo could be serious in saying this," Geoffrey Graves told himself as he stared at her in piteously

pleading dismay. He said nothing, but he put out his hand and took hers, and Florence snatched it away angrily, declaring that he was pressing the big diamond ring (one he had given her on the auspicious occasion of their betrothal) into her finger. She must be over-fatigued with the re-action after her late gaieties, and bored by the travelling, the good-hearted fellow assured himself. Still, he felt vaguely hurt and disappointed that she could rebuff him so.

CHAPTER III

TWELVE MONTHS AFTER.

DURING the year which had passed since the Honourable Jane Herries had packed up her scanty wardrobe, and reluctantly bidden adieu to the shabby home where she had never been remarkably happy nor free, nor treated with the slightest amount of consideration, much had occurred which it might reasonably have been anticipated would have altered her greatly. Altered she was externally, without doubt. The beauty, that had not been very apparent in the old Bath days, when she wore the badly-fitting dresses, that were either her more capable sister's "cast-offs," or the work of some fifth-rate dressmaker, was done justice to now by some of the best-built gowns and habits in town. The warm chestnut hair, with a decided kink— not a curl-in it, which of yore she had worn generally in a tangle, was arranged, in these halcyon days, by the deft hands of an artistic maid, in a way that brought out all the subtle charm of Jane's mobile, irregular-featured young face. Her eyes had always been beautiful. No amount of shabbiness and untidiness had marred the loveliness of those starry, violet eyes that were encircled so becomingly by thick, long, dark lashes. But even her eyes had gained a new expression in the course of the last twelve months. They were sweeter, but less shy. They flashed and sparkled less, perhaps, but their depths held greater pathos. In fact, their owner had learnt to feel more widely, keenly and strongly about certain things. And through those windows of the soul, her eyes, many of her feelings could be discerned.

But in simplicity of manner and singleness of heart, in straightforwardness and unselfishness, she was still the Jane of