human
are apt to be a trifle wearisome, and _don't_, somehow or other, take so well as the sedulous efforts of their pruners and trainers--the rarefied moral atmosphere of the conservatories, in which they are carefully screened from ordinary air, and the anxiety evinced lest the flower should ever forget itself, and sway naturally in the wind--deserve. But Cardonnel had gone mad after her, that perfect face of hers had done for him; and whatever Goodwood might be, _he_ was serious--he positively haunted the young beauty like her own shadow--he was leaning on the rails every morning of his life that she took her early ride--he sent her bouquets as lavishly as if he'd been a nursery gardener. By some species of private surveillance, or lover's clairvoyance, he knew beforehand where she would go, and was at the concert, fête, morning party, bazaar, or whatever it happened to be, as surely as was Lady Marabout herself. Poor Cardonnel was serious, and fiercely fearful of his all-powerful and entirely eligible rival; though greater friends than he and Goodwood had been, before this girl's face appeared on the world of Belgravia, never lounged arm-in-arm into Pratt's, or strolled down the