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I also took her to the Eton and Harrow
match, and talked to her of women's hats and the things she loved, and
neglected the cricket. But she would have none of me. In the flood tide
of my passion she married a scorbutic archdeacon of the name of Jugg.
Then there was a lady whose name for the life of me I can't remember. It
was something ending in "-ine." We quarrelled because we held divergent
views on Mr. Wilson Barrett. Then there was Clothilde, whose tragical
story I have already unfolded; Lucy Crooks, who threw me over for this
dear, amiable, wooden-headed stockjobbing Latimer; X, Y and Z--but here,
let me remark, I was the hunted--mammas spread nets for me which by the
grace of heaven and the ungraciousness of the damsels I escaped; and,
lastly, my incomparable Eleanor Faversham. Now, I thought, am I safe
in harbour? If ever a match could have been labelled "Pure heaven-made
goods, warranted not to shrink"--that was one. But for this rupture
there is an all-accounting reason. For the others there was none.


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