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At that time, Jack was richer than he had ever been before. His works were performed at the principal concerts: He also gave lessons at the moderate rate of fifteen guineas a dozen, and had more applications for lessons at that rate than he had time to accept: publishers tempted him with offers of blank cheques for inane drawing room ballads with easy accompaniments. Every evening he went from his lodging in Church Street to some public entertainment at which he had to play or conduct, or to the house of some lady of fashion who considered her reception incomplete without him; for “society” found relief and excitement in the eccentric and often rude manner of the Welsh musician, and recognized his authority to behave as he pleased. At such receptions he received fresh invitations, some of which he flatly declined. Others he accepted, presenting himself duly, except when he forgot the invitation. When he did forget, and was reproached by the disappointed hostess, he denied all knowledge of her entertainment, and said that had he been asked he should have come as he never forgot anything. He made no calls, left no cards, and paid little attention to his dress.

One afternoon he went to the house of Mr Phipson, who had been of service to him at the Antient Orpheus. Among the guests there was Lady Geraldine Porter, Mrs Herbert’s friend, whom Jack did not know. She was a lady of strong common sense, resolutely intolerant of the eccentricities and affectations of artists. No man who wore a velveteen jacket and long hair had a chance of an introduction to or an invitation from Lady Geraldine. These people, she said, can behave themselves properly if they like. We have to learn manners before we go into society: let them do the same, since they are so clever. As to Jack, he was her pet aversion. Society, in her opinion, had one clear duty to Jack — to boycott him until he conformed to its reasonable usages. And she set an unavailing example, by refusing all intercourse with him in the drawing rooms where they frequently found themselves together.

When the inevitable entreaty from Mrs Phipson brought Jack to the piano, Lady Geraldine was sitting close behind him and next to Mrs Herbert. There was a buzz of conversation going on; and he struck a few chords to stop it. Those who affected Jack-worship h’shed at the talkers, and assumed an expression of enthusiastic expectation. The buzz subsided, but did not quite cease. Jack waited patiently, thrumming the keyboard. Still there was not silence. He turned round, and saw Lady Geraldine speaking earnestly to Mrs Herbert, heedless of what was passing in the room. He waited still, with his body twisted towards her and his right hand behind him on the keys, until her unconscious breach of good manners, becoming generally observed, brought about an awful pause. Mrs Herbert hastily warned her by a stealthy twitch. She stopped; looked up; took in the situation; and regarded Jack’s attitude with marked displeasure.

“You mustn’t talk,” he said, corrugating his nose. “You must listen to me.”

Lady Geraldine’s color rose slightly, a phenomenon which no one present had ever witnessed before. “I beg your pardon,” she said, bowing. Jack appreciated the dignity of her tone and gesture. He nodded approvingly — to her disappointment, for she had intended to abash him$mdash;and, turning to the piano, gave out his theme in the form of a stately minuet. Upon this he improvised for twenty-five minutes, to the delight of a few genuine amateurs present. The rest, though much fatigued, were loud in admiration of Jack’s genius; and many of them crowded about him in the hope of inducing him to give a similar performance at their own houses.

“Oh, how I adore music!”said one of them to him later on, when he came and sat by her. If I were only a great genius like you!” Instead of replying he looked indignantly at her. “I really don’t see why I am not supposed capable of appreciating anything,” she continued, “I am very fond of music.”

“Nobody says you’re not,” said Jack. “You are fond enough of music when it walks in its silver slippers — as Mr By-ends was fond of religion.”

The lady, who was a born Irish Protestant, a Roman Catholic by conversion, a sort of freethinker, after the fashionable broad-church manner, by habit, by conviction nothing at all, and very superstitious by nature, always suspected some personal application in allusions to religion. She looked askance at him, and said pettishly, “I wonder you condescend to converse with me at all, since you have such a low opinion of me.”

“I like talking to you — except when you go into rhapsodies over music. Do you know why?”

“I am sure I don’t,” she said, with a little laugh and a glance at him. “Why?”

“Because you are a chatterbox,” said Jack, relishing the glance. “Don’t think, madame, that it is because you are a kindred spirit and musical. I hate musical people. Who is that lady sitting next Mrs Herbert?”

“What! You don’t know! That explains your temerity. She is Lady Geraldine Porter; and you are the first mortal that ever ventured to rebuke her. It was delicious.”

“Is that the lady who would not have me at her house?”

Yes. You have revenged yourself, though.”

Plenty of fools will say so; and therefore I am sorry I spoke to her. However. I cannot be expected to know trifles of this kind, though I am in the confidence of pretty Mrs Saunders. Have you any wicked stories to tell me to-day?”

“No. Except what everybody knows, and what I suppose you knew before anybody — about your friend Miss Sutherland and Adrian Herbert.”

“What about them? Tell me nothing about Miss Sutherland unless you are sure it is true. I do not want to hear anything unpleasant of her.”

“You need not be so cross,” said Mrs. Saunders coolly. “You can ask her for the particulars. The main fact is that Mr Herbert, who was engaged to her, is going to marry Szczympliça, the pianist.”

“Pshaw! That is an old story. He has been seen speaking to her once or twice; and of course—”

“Now, Mr Jack, let me tell you that it is not the old story, which was mere gossip. I never repeat gossip. It is a new story, and a true one. Old Madame Szczympliça told me all about it. Her daughter actually refused Mr Herbert because of his former engagement; and then he went straight to Mary Sutherland, and asked her to give up her claim — which of course she had to do, poor girl. Then he went back to the Sczympliça, and prevailed with her. Miss Sutherland, with all her seriousness shewed that she knows her métier as well as the most frivolous of her sex — as myself, if you like; for she set to work at once to express her remorse at having jilted him. How transparent all our little artifices are after all Mr Jack.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“You shall see. I did not believe it myself at first. But Miss Sutherlan told me in this very room the day before yesterday that Mr Herbert was no longer engaged to her, and that she particularly wished it to be understood that if there was any blame in the matter, it was due to her and not to him. Of course I took in the situation at once. She said it admirably, almost implying that she was magnanimously eager to shield poor Adrian Herbert from my busy tongue. Poor Mary! she is well rid of him if she only knew it. I wonder who will be the next candidate for the post he has deserted Mrs. Saunders, as she wondered, glanced at Jack’s eyes.

“Why need she fill it at all? Every woman’s head is not occupied with stuff of that sort.” Jack spoke gruffly, and seemed troubled, After a few moments, during which she leaned back lazily, and smiled at him, he rose. “Goodbye,” he said. “You are not very amusing to-day. I suppose you are telling this fine story of yours to whoever has time to listen to it.”

“Not at all, Mr Jack. Everybody is telling it to me. I am quite tired of it.”

Jack uttered a grunt, and left her. Meeting Mrs Herbert, he made his bow, and asked where Miss Sutherland was.

“She is in the conservatory,” said Mrs Herbert, hesitating. “But I think she will be engaged there for some time.” He thanked her, and wandered through the rooms for five minutes. Then, his patience being exhausted, he went into the conservatory, where he saw Lady Geraldine apparently arguing some point with Mary, who stood before her looking obstinately downward.

“It is quixotic nonsense,” Lady Geraldine was saying as Jack entered. “He has behaved very badly; and you know it as well as I do, only you feel bound to put yourself in a false position to screen him.”

“That is where I disagree with you, Lady Geraldine. I think my position the true one; and the one you would have me take, the false one.”

“My dear, listen to me. Do you not see that your efforts to exculpate Adrian only convince people of his meanness? The more you declare you deserted him, the more they are certain that it is a case of sour grapes, and that you are making the common excuse of girls who are jilted. Don’t be angry with me — nothing but brutal plain speaking will move you. You told Belle Woodward — Belle Saunders, I mean — that the fault was yours. Do you suppose she believed you?”

“Of course,” said Mary, vehemently, but evidently shocked by this view of the case.

“Then you are mistaken,” said Jack, advancing. “She has just given me the very version that this lady has so sensibly put to you.”

Lady Geraldine turned and looked at him in a way that would have swept an ordinary man speechless from the room.

Mary, accustomed to him, did not think of resenting his interference, and said, after considering distressedly for a moment, “But it is not my fault if Mrs Saunders chooses to say what is not true. I cannot adapt what has really happened to what she or anybody else may think.”

“I don’t know what has really happened,” said Jack. “But you can hold your tongue; and that is the proper thing for you to do. It is none of their business. It is none of yours, either, to whitewash Herbert, whether he needs it or not. I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he added, turning ceremoniously to Lady Geraldine. “I should have retired on seeing Miss Sutherland engaged, had I not accidentally overheard the excellent advice you were giving her.” With that he made his best oldfashioned bow, and went away.

“Well, really!’ said Lady Geraldine, staring after him, “Is this the newest species of artistic affectation, pray? It used to be priggishness, or loutishness, or exquisite sensibility. But now it seems to be outspoken common sense; and instead of being a relief, it is the most insufferable affectation of all. My dear: I hope I have not distressed you.”

“Oh, this world is not fit for any honest woman to live in,” cried Mary, indignantly. “It has some base construction to put on every effort to be just and tell the truth. If I had done my best to blacken Adrian after deserting him, I should be at no loss now for approval and sympathy. As it is, I am striving to do what is right; and I am made to appear contemptible for my pains.”

“It is not a very honest world, I grant you,” said Lady Geraldine quietly, “but it is not so bad as you think. Young people quarrel with it because it will not permit them to be heroic in season and out of season. You have made a mistake; and you want to be heroic out of season on the strength, or rather the weakness of that mistake. I, who know you well, do not suppose, as Belle Saunders does, that you are consciously making a virtue of a necessity; but I think there is a little spiritual pride in your resolution not to be betrayed into reproaching Adrian. In fact, all Quixotism is tainted with spiritual vainglory; and that is the reason that no one likes it, or even admires it heartily, in real life. Besides, my dear, nobody really cares a bit how Adrian behaved or how you behaved: they only care about the facts; and the facts, I must say, are plain enough. You and Adrian were unwise enough to enter into a long engagement. You got tired of one another — wait till I have finished; and then protest your fill. Adrian went behind your back and proposed to another woman, who was more honorable than he, and refused to let him smuggle her into your place. Then, instead of coming to demand his freedom straightforwardly, he came to fish for it — to entrap you into offering it to him; and he succeeded. The honest demand came from you instead of from him.”

“But I fished, too,” said Mary, piteously. “I was only honest when he drove me to it.”

“Of course,” said Lady Geraldine, impatiently. “You are not an angel; and the sooner you reconcile yourself to the few failings which you share with the rest of us, the happier you will be. None of us are honest in such matters except when our conscience drives us to it. The honestest people are only those who feel the constraint soonest and strongest. If you had held out a little longer, Adrian might have forestalled you. I say he might; but, in my opinion, he would most probably fastened a quarrel on you — about Jack or somebody else — and got out of his engagement that way.”

“Oh, no; for he spoke about Mr Jack, and said expressly that he did not mind him at all; but that if he had brought about any change in my feelings, I need not feel bound by the eng — There: I know that is additional proof of his faithlessness in your eyes.”

“It is a proof of what a thorough fool a man must be, to expect you to take such a bait. Please release me, Mr Herbert, that I may gratify my fancy for Mr Jack.’ That is such a likely thing for a woman to say!”

“I hope you are not in earnest about Mr Jack, Lady Geraldine.”

“I am not pleased about him, Mary. These friendships stand in a girl’s way. Of course I know you are not in love with him — at least, accustomed as I am to the folly of men and women about one another, even I cannot conceive such infatuation; but, Mary, do not flourish your admiration for his genius (I suppose he has genius) in the faces of other men.”

“I will go back to Windsor, and get clear of Mr Jack and Mr Herbert both. I wish people would mind their own business.”

“They never do, dear. But it is time for us to go. Have I dashed your spirits very much?”

“Not at all,” replied Mary absently.

“Then, if you are quite gay, you need not object to come somewhere with me this evening.”

“You mean to go out somewhere? I cannot, Lady Geraldine. I should only be a wet blanket. I am not in the vein for society to-day. Thank you, all the same, for trying to rescue me from my own thoughts.”

“Nonsense, Mary. You must come. It is only to the theatre. Mrs Herbert and we two will make a quiet party. After what has passed you cannot meet her too soon; and I know she is anxious to shew that she does not mean to take Adrian’s part against you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. So far from it, that I am afraid Adrian will think I am going to her to complain of him. There,” she added, seeing that this last doubt was too much for Lady Geraldine’s patience; “I will come. I know I am very hard to please; but indeed I did not feel in the humor for theatregoing.”

“You will be ready at half-past seven?”

Mary consented; sighed; and left the conservatory dejectedly with Lady Geraldine, who, on returning to the drawingroom had another conference with Mrs Herbert.

Meanwhile Jack, after chatting a while with Mrs Saunders, prepared to depart. He had put off his afternoon’s work in order to be at Mr Phipson’s disposal; and he felt indolent and morally lax in consequence, stopping as he made his way to the door, to speak to several ladies who seldom received even a nod from him. On the stairs he met the youngest Miss Phipson; and he lingered a while to chat with her. He then went down to the hall, and was about to leave the house when he heard his name pronounced sweetly behind him. He turned and saw Lady Geraldine at whom he gazed in unconcealed surprise.

“I forgot to thank you for your timely aid in the conservatory,” she said, in her most gracious manner. “I wonder whether you will allow me to ask for another and greater favor.”

“What is it?” said Jack, suspiciously.

“Mrs Herbert,” replied Lady Geraldine, with a polite simulation of embarrassment,” is going to make use of my box at the theatre this evening; and she and has asked Miss Sutherland there. We are very anxious that you should accompany us, if you have no important engagement. As I am the nominal owner of the box, may I beg you to come with us.”

Jack was not satisfied. The invitation was unaccountable to him, as he knew perfectly well what Lady Geraldine thought of him. Instead of answering, he stood looking at her in a perplexity which expressed itself unconsciously in hideous grimaces.

“Will you allow me to send my carriage to your house,” she said, when the pause became unbearable.

“Yes. No. I’ll join you at the theatre. Will that do?”

Lady Geraldine, resenting his manner, put strong constraint on herself, as, with careful courtesy she told him the name of the theatre and the hour of the performance. He listened to her attentively, but gave no sign of assent. When she had finished speaking, he looked absently up the staircase; shewed his teeth; and hammered a tune on his chin with the edge of his hat. The strain on Lady Geraldine’s forbearance became very great indeed.

“May we depend on your coming?” she said at last.

“Why do you want me to come?” he exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t like me.”

Lady Geraldine drew back a step. Then, losing patience, she said sharply, “What answer do you expect me to make to that, Mr. Jack?”

“None,” said he with mock gravity. “It is unanswerable. From Capharsalama on eagle wings I fly.” And after making her another bow, he left the house chuckling. As he disappeared, Mrs Herbert came downstairs and joined Lady Geraldine.

“Well,” she said. “Is Mary to be made happy at our expense?”

“Yes,” said Lady Geraldine. “I bearded the monster here, and got what I deserved for my pains. The man is a savage.”

“I told you what to expect.”

“That did not make it a bit pleasanter. You had better come and dine with me. Sir John is going to Greenwich; and we may as well enjoy ourselves together up to the last moment.”

That evening Mary Sutherland reluctantly accompanied Mrs Herbert and Lady Geraldine to the theatre, to witness the first performance in England of a newly translated French drama. When she had been a few minutes seated in their box, she was surprised by the entry of Jack, whose black silk kerchief, which he persisted in wearing instead of a necktie, was secured with a white pin, shewing that he had dressed himself with unusual care.

“Mr Jack!” exclaimed Mary.

“Just so, Mr Jack,” he said, hanging his only hat, which had suffered much from wet weather and bad use on a peg behind the door. “Did you not expect him?”

Mary, about to say no, hesitated, and glanced at Lady Geraldine.

“I see you did not,” said Jack, placing his chair behind hers. “A surprise, eh?”

“An agreeable surprise,” said Mrs Herbert smoothly, with her fan before her lips.

“An accidental one,” said Lady Geraldine. “I forgot to tell Miss Sutherland that you had been good enough to promise to come.”

Mrs Herbert is laughing at me,” said Jack, goodhumoredly. “So are you. It was you who were good enough to ask me, not I who was good enough to come. Listen to the band. Those eighteen or twenty bad players cost more than six good ones would, and are not half so agreeable to listen to. Do you hear what they are playing? Can you imagine anyone writing such stuff?”

“It certainly sounds exceedingly ugly; but I am notoriously unmusical, so my opinion is not worth anything.”

“Still, so far as you can judge, you don’t like it?”

“Certainly not.”

I am beginning to like it,” said Mrs Herbert, coolly. “I am quite aware that it is one of your own compositions — or some arrangement of one.”

“Ha! ha! Souvenirs de Jack, they call it. This is what a composer has to surfer whenever he goes to a public entertainment, Lady Geraldine.”

“In revenge for which, he ungenerously lays traps for others, Mr Jack.”

“You are right,” said Jack, suddenly becoming moody. “It was ungenerous; but I shared the discomfiture. There they go at my fantasia. Accursed be the man — Hark! The dog has taken it upon himself to correct the harmony.” He ceased speaking, and leaned forward on his elbows, grinding his teeth and muttering. Mary, in low spirits herself, made an effort to soothe him.

“Surely you do not care about such a trifle as that,” she began. “What harm—”

“You call it a trifle,” he said, interrupting her threateningly.

“Certainly,” interposed Lady Geraldine, in ironically measured tones. “A composer such as you can afford to overlook an ephemeral travesty to which nobody is listening. Were I in your place, I would not suffer a thought of resentment to ruffle the calm surface of my contempt for it.”

“Wouldn’t you?” said Jack, sarcastically. “Tell me one thing. You are very rich — as rich in money as I am in music. Would you like to be robbed of a sovereign?”

“I am not fond of being robbed at all, Mr Jack.”

“Aha! Neither am I. You wouldn’t miss the sovereign — people would think you stingy for thinking about it. Perhaps I can afford to be misrepresented by a rascally fiddler for a few nights here as well as you could afford the pound. But I don’t like it.”

“You are always unanswerable,” said Lady Geraldine, good humoredly.

Jack stood up and looked round the theatre. “All the world and his wife are here tonight,” he said. That whitehaired gentleman hiding at the back of the balcony is the father of an old pupil of mine — a man cursed with an ungovernable temper. His name is Brailsford. The youth with the eyeglass in the stalls is a critic: he called me a promising young composer the other day. Who is that coming into the box nearly opposite? The Sczympliça, is it not’ I see Madame’s top-knot coming in through the inner gloom. She takes the best seat, of course, just as naturally as if she was a child at her first pantomime. There is a handsome gentleman with a fair beard dimly visible behind. It must be Master Adrian. He has a queer notion of life — he added, forgetting that he was in the presence of “that chap’s” mother.

Mrs Herbert looked round gravely at him; and Lady Geraldine frowned. He did not notice them: he was watching Mary, who had shrunk for a moment behind the curtain, but was now sitting in full view of Herbert, looking at the stage, from which the curtain had just gone up.

Nothing more was said in the box until, at a few words words pronounced behind the scenes by a strange voice. Jack uttered an inarticulate sound and stood up.

Then there came upon the stage a lady, very pretty, very elegantly dressed, a little bold in her manner, a little over-rouged, fascinating because of these slight excesses, but stamped by them as foreign to the respectable society into which she was supposed to have intruded.

“Absurd!” said Mary suddenly, after gazing incredulously at the actress for a moment. “It cannot be. And yet I verily believe it is. Lady Geraldine: is not that Madge Brailsford?”

“I really think it is,” said Lady Geraldine, using her opera glass. “How shockingly she is painted! And yet I don’t believe it is, either. That woman is evidently very clever, which Madge never was, so far as I could see. And the voice is quite different.”

“Oho!” said Jack. “It was I who found that voice for her.”

Then it is Madge,” said Mary.

“Of course it is. Rub your eyes and see for yourself.” Mary looked and looked, as if she could hardly believe it yet. At the end of the act, the principal performers, including Magdalen, were called before the curtain and heartily applauded. Jack, though contemptuous of popular demonstrations, joined in this, making as much noise as possible, and impatiently bidding Mary take off her gloves, that she might clap her hands with more effect. A moment afterwards, there was a hasty knocking at the door of the box. Mary looked across the theatre; saw that Adrian’s chair was vacant; and turned red. Jack opened the door, and admitted, not Adrian, but Mr Brailsford, who hurried to the front of the box; shook Lady Geraldine’s hand nervously; made a hasty bow right and left to Mary and Mrs Herbert; and, after making as though he had something particular to say, sat down in Jack’s chair and said nothing. He was greatly agitated.

“Well, Mr Brailsford, said Lady Geraldine, smiling. “Dare I congratulate you?”

“Not a word — not a word,” he said, as if he were half-suffocated. “I beg your pardon for coming into your box. I am a broken man — disgraced by my own daughter. My favorite daughter, sir — madame — I beg your pardon again. You can tell this young lady that she was my favorite daughter.”

“But you must not take her brilliant success in this way,” said Lady Geraldine gently,looking at him with surprise and pity. “And remember that you have other girls.”

“Psha! Whish-h-h!” hissed the old gentleman, throwing up his hand and snapping his fingers. “They arc all born fools — like their mother. She is like me, the only one who is like me. Did you ever see such impudence? A girl brought up as she was, walking out of a house in Kensington Palace Gardens onto the stage, and playing a Parisian — a French — God bless me, a drab! to the life. It was perfection. I’ve seen everybody that ever acted — years before your ladyship was born. I remember Miss O’Neill, aye, and Mrs Jordan; Mars, Rachel, Piccolomini! she’s better than any of them, except Miss O’Neill — I was young in her time. She wouldn’t be kept from it. I set my face against it. So did her mother — who could no more appreciate her than a turnip could. So did we all. We locked her up; we took her money from her; I threatened to disown her — and so I will too; but she had her way in spite of us all. Just like me: exactly like me. Why, when I was her age, I cared no more for my family than I did for Buonaparte. It’s in her blood. I should have been on the stage myself only it’s a blackguard profession; and a man who can write tragedy does not need to act it. I will turn over some of my old manuscripts; and she shall show the world what her old father can do. And did you notice how self-possessed she was? I saw the nerves under it. I felt them. Nervousness always played the devil with me. I tell you, madame — and I am qualified to speak on the subject — that she walks the stage and gives out her lines in the true old style. You don’t know these things, Miss Mary: you are too young: you never saw great acting. But I know. I had lessons from the great Young: Edmund Kean was a mountebank beside him. I was the best pupil of Charles Mayne Young, and of little Dutch Sam — but that was another matter. No true lady would paint her face and make an exhibition of herself on a public stage for money. Still, it is a most extraordinary thing that a young girl like that, without any teaching or preparation, should walk out of a drawing room onto the stage, and take London by storm.”

“But has she not had some little experience in the provinces?” said Mary.

Certainly not,” said Mr Brailsford impatiently. Strolling about with a parcel of vagabond pantomimists is not experience — not proper experience for a young lady. She is the first Brailsford that ever played for money in a public theatre. She is not a Brailsford at all. I have forbidden her to use the name she’s disgraced.”

“Come,” said Lady Geraldine. “You are proud of her. You know you are.”

“I am not. I have refused to see her. I have disowned her. If I caught one of her sisters coming to witness this indecent French play of which she is the life and soul — what would it be without her, Lady Geraldine? Tell me that.”

“It would be the dullest business imaginable.”

“Hal ha:” cried Brailsford, with a triumphant gesture: “I should think so. Dull as ditch-water. Her voice alone would draw all London to listen.

Perhaps you think that I taught her to speak. I tell you, Mrs. Herbert, I would have slain her with my own hand as soon as trained her for such a profession. Who taught her then? Why — ?”

“I did,” said Jack. Mr Brailsford, who had not noticed his presence before, stared at him, and stiffened as he did so.

“I believe you are already acquainted with Mr Jack.” said Lady Geraldine, watching them with some anxiety.

“You see what she has made of herself,” said Jack, looking hard at him. “I helped her to do it: you opposed her. Which of us was in the right?”

“I will not go into that question with you, sir,” said Mr Brailsfod, raising his voice and waving his glove. Ï do not approve of my daughter’s proceedings.” He turned from Jack to Mrs Herbert, and made a brave effort to chat with her with a jaunty air. “A distinguished audience, tonight I think I saw somewhere in the house, your son, not the least distinguished of us. Painting is a noble art. I remember when painters did not stand as well in society as they do now; but never in my life have I failed in respect for them. Never. A man is the better for contemplating a great picture. Your son has an enviable career before him.”

“So I am told.”

“Not a doubt of it. He is a fine young man — as he indeed could not fail to be with such an inheritance of personal graces and mental endowments.”

“He is very like his father.”

“Possibly, madame,” said Mr. Brailsford, bowing. “But I never saw his father.”

“Whatever his career may be, I shall have little part in it. I did not encourage him to become an artist. I opposed his doing so as well as I could. I was mistaken, I suppose: it is easier than I thought to become a popular painter. But children never forgive such mistakes.”

“Forgive!” exclaimed Mr. Brailsford, his withered cheek reddening faintly. “If you have forgiven him for disregarding your wishes, you can hardly believe that he will be so unnatural as to cherish any bad feeling towards you. Eh?”

“It is not unnatural to resent an unmerited wound to one’s vanity. If I could honestly admire Adrian’s work even now, I have no doubt he would consent to be reconciled to me in time. But I cannot. His pictures seem weak and sentimental to me. I can see the deficiencies of his character in every line of them. I always thought that genius was an indispensable condition to success.”

“Ha! ha!” said Jack. “What you call success is the compensation of the man who has no genius. If you had believed in his genius, and yet wanted success for him, you might have opposed him with better reason. Some men begin by aiming high, and they have to wait till the world comes up to their level. Others aim low, and have to lift themselves to success. Happy follows like Mr Adrian hit the mark at once,being neither too good for the Academy people nor too bad for the public.”

“Probably you are right,” said Mrs Herbert. “I should have borne in mind that worse painters than he enjoy a fair share of toleration. However, I must abide by my error now.”

“But surely,” said Mr Brailsford, harping anxiously on the point, “You do not find that he persists in any little feeling of disappointment that you may have caused him formerly. No, no: he can’t do that. He must see that you were actuated by the truest regard for his welfare and — and so forth.”

“I find that his obstinacy, or perseverance rather, is as evident in his resentment against me as it was in his determination to make himself an artist in spite of me.”

Mr Brailsford, troubled, bit his nail, and glanced at Mrs Herbert twice or thrice, without speaking. Lady Geraldine watched him for a moment, and then said: “There is a difference between your case and Mrs Herbert’s.”

“Of course,” he said, hurriedly. “Oh, of course. Quite different I was not thinking of any such—”

“And yet, continued Lady Geraldine, “there is some likeness too. You both opposed your children’s tastes. But Mrs Herbert does not believe in Adrian’s talent, although she is glad he has made a position for himself. You, on the contrary, are carried away by Magdalen’s talent; but you are indignant at the position it has made for her.”

“I am not carried away. You entirely misapprehend my feelings. I deeply deplore her conduct. I have ceased to correspond with her even, since she set my feelings at defiance by accepting a London engagement.”

“In short,” said Lady Geraldine, with goodhumored raillery, “you would not speak to her if she were to walk into this box.”

Mr. Brailsford started and looked round; but there was no one behind him: Jack had disappeared. “No,” he said, recovering himself. “Certainly not. I cannot believe that she would venture into my presence.”

The curtain went up as he spoke. When Madge again came on the stage, her business was of a more serious character than in the first act, and displayed the heartless determination of the adventuress rather than her amusing impudence. Lady Geraldine, admiring a certain illustration of this, turned with an approving glance to Mr. Brailsford. He was looking fixedly at the stage, no longer triumphant, almost haggard. He seemed relieved when the actress, being supposed to recognize an old lover, relented, and showed some capacity for sentiment. When the act was over, he still sat staring nervously at the curtain. Presently the box door opened; and he again looked round with a start. It was Jack, who, returning his testy regard with a grim smile, came close to him; stretched an arm over his head; and pulled over one of the curtains of the box so as to seclude it from the house. Mr Brailsford rose, trembling.

“I absolutely refuse—” he began.

Jack opened the door; and Madge, with her dress covered by a large domino cloak, hurried in. She threw off the cloak as soon as the door was closed, and then seized her father and kissed him. He said with difficulty, “My dear child,” sat down; and bent his head, overpowered by emotion for the moment. She stood with her hand on his shoulder, and bowed over him in a very self-possessed manner to Mary, whom she addressed as “Miss Sutherland,” and to the others.

“I have no business to be here,” she said, in a penetrating whisper. “It is against the rules. But when Mr Jack came and told me that my father was here, I could not let him go without speaking to him.”

Lady Geraldine bowed. She and her companions had been prepared to receive Madge with frank affection, but her appearance and manner quite disconcerted them. They recollected her as a pretty, petulant young lady: they had actually seen her as one only two minutes before on the stage. Yet here she was, apparently grown during those two minutes not only in stature but in frame. The slight and elegant lady of the play was in the box a large, strong woman, with resonant voice and measured speech. Even her hand, as she patted her father’s shoulder, moved rhythmically as if the gesture were studied. The kindly patronage with which Lady Geraldine had been willing to receive an impulsive, clever young girl, was forgotten in the midst of respect, disappointment, and even aversion inspired by the self-controlled and accomplished woman. Mary was the first to recover herself.

“Madge,” she said, “ — that is, if one may venture to call you Madge.”

“Indeed you may,” said Madge, nodding and smiling gracefully.

“You are a great deal more like yourself on the stage than off it.”

“Yes,” said Madge. “For the last two and a half years, I have not taken a single holiday.”

Mr Brailsford now sat upright; coughed; and looked severely round. His lip relaxed as his gaze fell on Magdalen; and after an apprehensive glance at her, he lost his assurance even more obviously than the others.

“You have grown a good deal, I think, my child,” he said nervously.

“Yes. I hardly expected you to know me. You are looking better than ever. How are the girls?”

“Quite well, thank you, my dear. Quite well.”

“And mother?”

“Oh, she is well. A little rheumatism, of course; and — a—”

I shall come and see you all tomorrow, at one o’clock. Be sure to stay at home for me, won’t you?”

“Certainly. Certainly. We shall be very glad to see you.”

“Now I must run away; and I shall not see you again tonight except across the footlights, Mr Jack: my domino.” Jack put the cloak upon her shoulders. “Is the corridor empty?” Jack looked out and reported it empty. “I must give you one more kiss, father.” She did so; and on this occasion Mr Brailsford did not exhibit emotion, but merely looked dazed. Then she bowed as sweetly as before to Lady Geraldine and Mrs. Herbert.

“Good night, Madge,” said Mary, putting up her spectacles, and peering boldly at her.

Good night, dear,” said Madge, passing her arm round Mary’s neck, and stooping to kiss her. “Come tomorrow; and I will tell you all the news about myself. May I fly now, Mr Jack?

“Come along,” said Jack; and she tripped out, whisking her domino dexterously through the narrow door, and revealing for an instant her small foot.

There was an awkward silence in the box for some moments after she left. It was broken by the chuckling of Jack, who presently said aside to Mary, “When I first saw that young lady, she was a helpless good-for-nothing piece of finery.”

“And now,” said Mary, she is an independent woman, and an accomplished artist. How I envy her!”

“Why?” said Jack.

“Because she is of some use in the world.”

“If you will allow me,” said Mr Brailsford, rising suddenly, “I will return to my own place, I am incommoding your friend, doubtless. Good night. “He offered a trembling hand to Lady Geraldine; made a courtly demonstration toward Mary and Mrs Herbert, and turned to go, On his way to the door, he stopped; confronted Jack, and made him a grave bow, which was returned with equal dignity. Then he went out slowly, like an infirm old man, without any sign of his habitual jauntiness.

“Poor devil.” said Jack.

“I beg your pardon?”said Lady Geraldine sharply.

“He finds his pet baby changed into a woman; and he doesn’t like it,” said Jack, not heeding her remonstrance. “Now, if she were still the cream-colored, helpless little beauty she used to be, quite dependent on him, he would be delighted to have such a pretty domestic toy to play with.”

“Perhaps so,” said Lady Geraldine. “But there is such a thing as parental feeling; and it is possible that Mr Brailsford may not be philosopher enough to rejoice at a change which has widened the distance between her youth and his age.”

“He need not be alarmed,” said Jack. “If he cannot make a toy of her any longer, she can make a toy of him. She is thinking already of setting up a white haired father as part of her equipment: I saw the idea come into the jade’s head whilst she was looking down at him in that chair. He looked effective. This family affection is half sense of property, and half sense of superiority. Miss Sutherland — who is no use in the world, poor young lady — had not such property in Miss Brailsford as her father expected to have, and no such comfortable power of inviting her to parties and getting her married as you look forward to. And consequently, she was the only one who bore the change in her with a good grace, and really welcomed her.”

“I am not conscious of having been otherwise than perfectly friendly to her.”

“Ain’t you?” said Jack, sceptically. Lady Geraldine reddened slightly; then smiled in spite of her vexation, and said, “Really, Mr. Jack, you are a sort of grown up enfant terrible, I confess that I was a little overpowered by her staginess. I can understand actors being insufferably stagey on the boards, and quite natural in a room; but I cannot make out how an actress can be perfectly natural on the boards, and stagey in private.”

“Acting has become natural to her; and she has lost the habit of your society; that is all. As you say, acting never becomes natural to bad actors. There she comes again.”

“The charm is considerably weakened.” said Lady Geraldine, turning toward the stage, She does not seem half so real as she did before.”

The play ended as successfully as it had begun. The translators responded to calls for the author; and Miss Madge Lancaster took the lion’s share of the rest of the applause. Then the pit and galleries emptied themselves into the street with much trampling of stairs. The occupants of the more expensive places made their way slowly through the crush-room, one step at a time: the men sliding their feet forward at every advance: the women holding warm head wrappings with one hand, and hanging awkwardly on to the arms of gentlemen with the other. Lady Geraldine got a glimpse of Mr Brailsford as she descended; but he hurried away, as if desirous to avoid further conversation. Jack who had amused her by showing some emotion at the pathetic passages in the play, and who had since been silent, walked gloomily beside Mary. They were detained for some minutes in the vestibule, Lady Geraldine’s footman not being at hand.

“Come,”said Jack sulkily, “Here is somebody happy at last.”

Mary looked and saw Herbert coming down the stairs with Aurélie. who was, like Jack, the subject of some whispering and pointing.

“Yes,” said Mary. “He is happy. I do not wonder at it: she is very gentle and lovely. She is a greater artist than Madge: yet she has none of Madge’s assurance, which would repel Adrian.”

“She has plenty of assurance in music, which is her trade. Miss Madge has plenty of assurance in manners, which are her trade.”

I am just thinking, Geraldine,” said Mrs Herbert, of the difference between Adrian and that girl — Madge Brailsford. She, capable, sensible, able to hold her own against the world. She is everything, in short, that Adrian is not, and that I have often wished him to be. Yet her father seems as far from being united to her as Adrian is from me. Query then: is there any use in caring for one’s children? I really don’t believe there is.”

“Not the least, after they have become independent of you,” said Lady Geraldine, looking impatiently towards the door. “Where is Williams? I think he must have gone mad.”

At this moment Aurélie, recognizing Mrs Herbert, made as though she would stop, and said something to Adrian which threw him into trouble and indecision at once. Apparently she was urging him, and he making excuses, taking care not to look towards his mother. This dumb show was perfectly intelligible to Mrs Herbert, who directed Lady Geraldine’s attention to it.

“It is all Williams’s fault,” said Lady Geraldine. We should have been out of this five minutes ago. You had better take the bull by the horns at once, Eliza. Go and speak to him — the vacillating idiot!”

“I will not, indeed,” said Mrs Herbert. “I hope he will have the firmness to make her go away.”

The question was settled by the appearance of Lady Geraldine’s servant, who hurried in, and began to explain the delay.

“There. I do not want to hear anything about it,” said Lady Geraldine. “Now, where is Mary. Mary was already hastening out with Jack. Herbert saw them go with a sensation of relief. When he reached his lodgings he was disagreeably relieved from some feelings of remorse at having avoided Mary. On the table lay a parcel containing all his letters and presents to her, with a note — beginning “Dear Mr Herbert” — in which she said briefly that on second thoughts she considered it best to follow the usual course, and begged him to believe that she was, sincerely his, Mary Sutherland.