away. And you trusting to time, why it's like trusting not to catch cold
out of your natural clothes." There was no shaking Lucy's firmness.

Richard gave it up. He began to think that the life lying behind him was
the life of a fool. What had he done in it? He had burnt a rick and got
married! He associated the two acts of his existence. Where was the
hero he was to have carved out of Tom Bakewell!--a wretch he had taught
to lie and chicane: and for what? Great heavens! how ignoble did a flash
from the light of his aspirations make his marriage appear! The young
man sought amusement. He allowed his aunt to drag him into society, and
sick of that he made late evening calls on Mrs. Mount, oblivious of the
purpose he had in visiting her at all. Her man-like conversation, which
he took for honesty, was a refreshing change on fair lips.

"Call me Bella: I'll call you Dick," said she. And it came to be Bella
and Dick between them. No mention of Bella occurred in Richard's letters
to Lucy.

Mrs. Mount spoke quite openly of herself. "I pretend to be no better
than I am," she said, "and I know I'm no worse than many a woman who
holds her head high." To back this she told him stories of blooming
dames of good repute, and poured a little social sewerage into his ears.

Also she understood him. "What you want, my dear Dick, is something to
do. You went and got married like a--hum!--friends must be respectful.
Go into the Army. Try the turf. I can put you up to a trick or two--
friends should make themselves useful."

She told him what she liked in him. "You're the only man I was ever
alone with who don't talk to me of love and make me feel sick. I hate