cannot conceal from
my poor girl that this fatality exists ...«
    »Which is the poor girl at present?« said Mrs. Mountstuart, cool in a
mystification.
    »And though she will tell you that I have authorized and - Clara Middleton -
done as much as man can to institute the union you suggest, she will own that
she is conscious of the presence of this - fatality, I call it for want of a
better title - between us. It drives her in one direction, me in another - or
would, if I submitted to the pressure. She is not the first who has been
conscious of it.«
    »Are we laying hold of a third poor girl?« said Mrs. Mountstuart. »Ah! I
remember. And I remember we used to call it playing fast and loose in those
days, not fatality. It is very strange. It may be that you were unblushingly
courted in those days, and excuseable: and we all supposed ... but away you went
for your tour.«
    »My mother's medical receipt for me. Partially it succeeded. She was for
grand marriages: not I. I could make, I could not be, a sacrifice. And then I
went in due time to Dr. Cupid on my own account. She has the kind of attraction
... But one changes! On revient toujours. First we begin with a liking: then we
give ourselves up to the passion for beauty: then comes the serious question of
suitableness of the mate to match us: and perhaps we discover that we were wiser
in early youth than somewhat later. However, she has beauty. Now, Mrs.
Mountstuart, you do admire her. Chase the idea of the dainty rogue out of your
view of her: you admire her: she is captivating; she has a particular charm of
her own, nay, she has real beauty.«
    Mrs. Mountstuart fronted him to say: »Upon my word, my dear Sir Willoughby,
I think she has it to such a degree that I don't know the man who could hold out
against her if she took the field. She is one of the women who are dead shots
with men. Whether it's in their tongues or their eyes, or it's an effusion and
an atmosphere - whatever it is, it's a spell, another fatality for you!«
    »Animal; not spiritual!«
    »Oh! she hasn't the head of Letty Dale.«
    Sir Willoughby allowed Mrs. Mountstuart to pause