Thus, with a groaning soul, he pictured her. His reason voluntarily
consigned her to the aristocracy as a natural appanage: but he did
amorously wish that Fortune had made a lord of him.

Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Mount, and the strange bits of the
conversation he had heard on the hill. He was not one to suspect anybody
positively. He was timid of fixing a suspicion. It hovered
indefinitely, and clouded people, without stirring him to any resolve.
Still the attentions of the lady toward Richard were queer. He
endeavoured to imagine they were in the nature of things, because Richard
was so handsome that any woman must take to him. "But he's married,"
said Ripton, "and he mustn't go near these people if he's married." Not
a high morality, perhaps better than none at all: better for the world
were it practised more. He thought of Richard along with that sparkling
dame, alone with her. The adorable beauty of his dear bride, her pure
heavenly face, swam before him. Thinking of her, he lost sight of the
mignonne who had made him giddy.

He walked to Richard's hotel, and up and down the street there, hoping
every minute to hear his step; sometimes fancying he might have returned
and gone to bed. Two o'clock struck. Ripton could not go away. He was
sure he should not sleep if he did. At last the cold sent him homeward,
and leaving the street, on the moonlight side of Piccadilly he met his
friend patrolling with his head up and that swing of the feet proper to
men who are chanting verses.

"Old Rip!" cried Richard, cheerily. "What on earth are you doing here at
this hour of the morning?"

Ripton muttered of his pleasure at meeting him. "I wanted to shake your