The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the

disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted on having the Colonel

as his guest over Sunday at least; and Jane, with beaming smiles and

happiness in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the bailiff's house,

and they went homewards in the cab in which she had hastened to his

release. "Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner," she said, "when

Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I--I came myself"; and she put

her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt

was away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times,

and with an ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that

soft-hearted woman. "Oh," said he, in his rude, artless way, "you--you

don't know how I'm changed since I've known you, and--and little Rawdy.

I--I'd like to change somehow. You see I want--I want--to be--" He did

not finish the sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night

after he left her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she

prayed humbly for that poor way-worn sinner.

Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night.

He ran across the streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at

length came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back and

fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room

windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was in bed and

ill. He stood there for some time, the light from the rooms on his

pale face.

He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could hear

laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in which he had

been captured the night before. He went silently up the stairs,

leaning against the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was stirring

in the house besides--all the servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard

laughter within--laughter and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of

the song of the night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava!

Brava!"--it was Lord Steyne's.

Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was

laid out--and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on

which Becky sat. The wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette,

her arms and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings, and

the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given her. He had her

hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started up

with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the

next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her

husband; and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in

his looks.




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