cannot, however, be supposed that this latter line of diplomacy could be permanently successful. When you only meet your suitor at dances or operas, it may be no hard task to be always surrounded by a chevaux-de-frise of other admirers. We have all seen that maneuver brilliantly and patiently executed. But when you are staying at a country house with any man of average pertinacity, I make bold to say that nothing short of taking to bed can be permanently relied upon. If this is the case with the ordinary man, how much more does it hold good when the assailant is one like Haddington—a man of considerable address, unbounded persistence, and limitless complacency? There came a time when Claudia's forced marches failed her, and she had to turn and give battle. When the moment came she was prepared with an audacious plan of campaign.
She had walked down to the village one morning, attended by Haddington and protected by Bob, to buy for Mrs. Lane a fresh supply of worsted wool, a commodity apparently necessary to sustain that lady's life, and was returning at peace, when Bob suddenly exclaimed:
"By Jove! Tobacco! Wait for me!" and, turning, fled back whence he came, at full speed.
Claudia made an attempt at following him, but the weather was hot and the road dusty, and, confronted with the alternative of a tête-à-tête and a damaged personal appearance, she reluctantly chose the former.
Haddington did not let the grass grow under his feet. "Well," he said, "it won't be unpleasant to rest a little while, will it? Here's a dry bank."
Claudia never wasted time in dodging the inevitable. She sat down.
"I am very glad of this opportunity," Haddington began, in such a tone as a man might use if he had just succeeded in moving the adjournment. "It's curious how little I have managed to see of you lately, Lady Claudia."
"We meet at least five times a day, Mr. Haddington—breakfast, lunch, tea—"
"I mean when you are alone."
"Oh!"
"And yet you must know my great—my only object in being here is to see you."
"The less I say the sooner it will be over," thought Claudia, whose experience was considerable.
"You must have noticed my—my attachment. I hope it was without displeasure?"
This clearly called for an answer, but Claudia gave none. She sighed slightly and put up her parasol.
"Claudia, is there any hope for me? I love you more—"
"Mr. Haddington," said Claudia, "this is a painful scene. I trust nothing in my conduct has misled you. [This was known—how, I do not know—to her brothers as "Claudia's formula," but it is believed not to be uncommon.] But what you propose is utterly impossible."
"Why do you say that? Perhaps you do not know me well enough yet—but in time, surely?"
"Mr. Haddington," said Claudia, "let me speak plainly. Even if I loved you—which I don't and never shall, for immense admiration for a man's abilities is a different thing from love [Haddington looked somewhat soothed], I could never consent to accept the position of a pis-aller. That is not the Territon way." And Lady Claudia looked very proud.
"A pis-aller! What in the world do you mean?"
"Girls are not supposed to see anything. But do you think I imagine you would ever have honored me in this way unless a greater prize had been—had appeared to be out of reach?"
This was not fair; but it was near enough to the mark to make Haddington a little uneasy. Had Kate been free, he would certainly have been in doubt.
"I bear no malice about that," she continued, smiling, "only you mustn't pretend to be broken-hearted, you know."
"It is a great blow to me—a great blow."
Claudia looked as if she would like to say "Fudge!" but restrained herself and, with the daring characteristic of her, placed her hand on his arm.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Haddington. How it must gall you to see their happiness! I can understand you turning to me as if in self-protection. But you should not ask a lady to marry you because you're piqued with another lady. It isn't kind; it isn't, indeed."
Haddington was a little at loss.
"Indeed, you're wholly wrong. Lady Claudia. Indeed, if you come to that, I don't see that they are particularly rapturous."
"You don't mean you think they're unhappy? Mr. Haddington, I am so grieved!"
"Do you mean to say you don't agree with me?"
"You mustn't ask me. But, oh! I'm so sorry you think so too. Isn't it strange? So suited to one another—she so beautiful, he so clever, and both rich!"
"Miss Bernard is hardly rich, is she?"
"Not as Mr. Lane is, of course. She seems rich to me—forty thousand pounds, I think. Ah, Mr. Haddington, if only you had met her sooner!"
"I shouldn't have had much chance against Lane."
"Why do you say that? If you only knew—"
"What?"
"I mustn't tell you. How sad that it's too late!"
"Is it?"
"Of course. They're engaged!"
"An engagement isn't a marriage. If I thought—"
"Yes?"
"But I can't think of that now. Good-by, Claudia. We may not meet again."
"Oh, you won't go away? You mustn't let me drive you away. Oh, please, Mr. Haddington! Think, if you go, it must all come out! I should be so very, very distressed."
"If you ask me, I will try to stay."
"Yes, yes, stay—but forget all this. And never think again of the other—about them, I mean. You will stay?"
"Yes, I will stay," said Haddington.
"Unless it makes you too unhappy to see Eugene's triumph in Kate's love?"
"I don't believe much in that. If that's the only thing—but I must go. I see your brother coming up the hill."
"Yes, go; and I'll never tell that you tried me as—as a second string!"
"That's very unjust!" he protested, but more weakly.
"No, it isn't. I know your heart, and I do pity you."
"Perhaps I shall not ask for pity, Lady Claudia!"
"Oh, you mustn't think of that!"
"It was you who put it in my head."
"Oh, what have I done!"
Haddington smiled, and with a last squeeze of her hand turned and walked away.
Claudia put her handkerchief into her pocket and went to meet her brother.
Haddington returned alone to the house. Although suffering under a natural feeling of annoyance at discovering that he was not foremost in Claudia's heart, as he had led himself to suppose, he was yet keenly alive to the fact that the interview had its consolatory aspect. In the first place, there is a fiction that a lady who respects herself does not fall in love with a man whom she suspects to be in love with somebody else; and Haddington's mind, though of no mean order in some ways, was not of a sort to rise above fictions. He comforted his vanity with the thought that Claudia had, by a conscious effort, checked a nascent affection for him, which, if allowed unimpeded growth, would have developed into a passion. Again, that astute young lady had very accurately conjectured his state of mind, while her pledge of secrecy disposed of the difficulty in the way of a too rapid transfer of his attentions. If Claudia did not complain, nay, counseled such action, who had a right to object? It was true she had eagerly disclaimed any intention of inciting him to try to break the ties that now bound Miss Bernard. But, he reflected, the important point was not the view she took of the morality