Arthur was a dear fellow; but from the worldly point of view it was not good enough.

Eugenie was born for a large sphere; it was her father's duty to find it for her if he could.
Hence the French betrothal--the crowning point of a summer visit to a French chateau where Eugenie had been the spoiled child of a party containing some of the greatest names in France.

It flattered both Lord Findon's vanity and imagination to find himself brought into connexion with historic families all the more attractive because of that dignified alienation from affairs, imposed on them by their common hatred of the Second Empire.

Eugenie, too, had felt the romance of the _milieu_; had invested her French suitor with all that her own poetic youth could bring to his glorification; had gone to him a timid, willing, and most innocent bride.
Ah, well! it did not do to think of the sequel.

Perhaps the man was mad, as Eugenie insisted; perhaps much was due to some obscure brain effects of exposure and hardship during the siege of Paris--for the war had followed close on their honeymoon.