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Next day, in the afternoon, Jack left the room, the establishment of a celebrated firm of pianoforte manufacturers, where he gave his lessons, and walked homeward across Hyde Park. Here he saw approaching him a woman, dressed in light peacock blue, with a pale maize colored scarf on her neck and shoulders, and a large Spanish hat. Jack stood still and looked gloomily at her. She put on a pair of eye glasses; scrutinized him for a moment; and immediately shook them off her nose and stopped.

“You have finished work early to-day,” she said, smiling.

“I have not finished it,” he replied: “I have put them off. I want to go home and work: I cannot spend my life making money — not that I am likely to have the chance. Four lessons — five guineas — lost.”

“You wrote to them, I hope.”

“No. They will find out that I am not there when they call; and then they can teach themselves or go to the devil. They would put me off sooner than lose a tennis party. I will put them off sooner than lose a good afternoon’s work. I am losing my old independence over this moneymaking and society business — I don’t like it. No matter. Are you on your way to Cavendish Square?”

“Yes. But you must not turn back. You did not sacrifice your teaching to gad about the park with me. You want to compose. I know by your face.”

“Are you in a hurry”

“I am not; but—”

“Then come and gad about, as you call it, for a while. It is too fine a day to go indoors and grind tunes.”

She turned; and they strolled across the plain between the Serpentine and the Bayswater Road, crossing a vacant expanse of sward, or picking their way amongst idlers who lay prone on the grass, asleep, or basked supine in the sun. It was a warm afternoon and the sky was cloudless.

“You would not suppose, seeing the world look so pleasant that it is such a rascally place as it is,” said Jack, when they had walked some time in silence.

“It is not so very bad, though, after all, If you were a little of a painter, as I am, this sunlit sward and foliage would repay you for all the stupidities of people who have eyes, but cannot use them.”

“Äye, And painters suppose that their art is an ennobling one. Suppose I held up a lying, treacherous, cruel woman to the admiration of the painter, and reviled him as unimaginative if he would not accept her blue eyes, and silky hair, and fine figure as a compensation for her corrupt heart: he would call me names — cynical sensualist and so forth. What better is he with his boasted loveliness of Nature? There are moments when I should like to see a good hissing, scorching shower of brimstone sear the beauty out of her false face.

“Oh! What, is the matter to-day?”

“Spleen. I am poor. It is the source of most people’s complaints.”

“But you are not poor. Recollect that you have just thrown away five guineas, and that you will make ten tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“Well, are guineas wealth to a man who wants time and freedom from base people and base thoughts? No: I have starved out the first half of my life alone: I will fight through the second half on the same conditions. I get ten guineas a day at present for teaching female apes to scream, that they may be the better qualified for the marriage market. That is because I am the fashion. How long shall I remain the fashion? Until August, when the world — as it calls itself — will emigrate, and return next spring to make the fortune of the next lucky charlatan who makes a bid for my place. I shall be glad to be rid of them, in spite of their guineas: teaching them wastes my time, and does them no good. Then there is the profit on my compositions, of which I get five per cent, perhaps, in money, with all the honor and glory. The rest goes into the pockets of publishers and concert givers, some of whom will go down halfway to posterity on my back because they have given me, for a symphony with the fruits of twenty years’ hard work in it, about one-fifth of what is given for a trumpery picture or novel everyday. That fantasia of mine has been pirated and played in every musical capital in Europe; and I could not afford to buy you a sable jacket out of what I have made by it.”

“It is very hard, certainly. But do you really care about money?”

“Ha! ha! No, of course not. Music is its own reward. Composers are not human: they can live on diminished sevenths; and be contented with a pianoforte for a wife, and a string quartette for a family. Come,” he added boisterously, “enough of grumbling. When I took to composing, I knew I was bringing my pigs to a bad market. But don’t pretend to believe that a composer can satisfy either his appetite or his affections with music any more than a butcher or a baker can. I daresay I shall live all the more quietly for being an old bachelor.”

“I never dreamt that you would care to marry.”

“And who tells you that I would now?”

“I thought you were regretting your enforced celibacy,” she replied, laughing. He frowned; and she became serious. “Somehow,” she added, “I cannot fancy you as a married man.”

“Why?” he said, turning angrily upon her. “Am I a fish, or a musical box? Why have I less right to the common ties of social life than another man?”

“Of course you have as much right.” she said, surprised that her remark should have hurt him. “But I have known you so long as you are at present—”

“What am I at present?”

“A sort of inspired hermit,” she replied, undaunted. “It seems as if marriage would he an impossible condescension on your part. That is only a fancy, I know. If you could find any woman worthy of you and able to make you happy, I think you ought to marry. I should be delighted to see you surrounded by a pack of naughty children. You would never be an ogre any more then.”

“Do you think I am an ogre, then? Eh?”

“Sometimes. To-day, for instance, I think you are decidedly ogreish. I hope I am not annoying you with my frivolity. I am unusually frivolous to-day.”

“Hm! You seem to me to be speaking to the point pretty forcibly. So you would like to see me married?”

“Happily married, yes. I should be glad to think that your lonely, gloomy lodging was changed for a cheerful hearth; and that you had some person to take care of your domestic arrangements, which you are quite unfit to manage for yourself. Now that you have suggested the idea, it grows on me rapidly. May I set to work to find a wife for you?”

“Of course it does not occur to you,” he said, with unabated ill humor, “that I may have chosen for myself already — that I might actually have some sentimental bias in the business, for instance.”

Mary, much puzzled, put on her spectacles, and tried to find from his expression whether he was serious or joking. Failing, she laughed, and said, “I don’t believe you ever gave the matter a thought.”

“Just so. I am a privileged mortal, without heart or pockets. When you wake up and clap your hands after the coda of Mr Jack’s symphony, you have ministered to all his wants, and can keep the rest to yourself, love, money, and all.”

She could no longer doubt that he was in earnest: his tone touched her. “I had no idea—” she began. “Will you tell me who it is; or am I not to ask?”

He grinned in spite of himself. “What do you think of Mrs Simpson?” said he.

Mary’s mood had taken so grave a turn that she was for a moment unable to follow this relapse into banter.

“But,” she said, looking shocked, “Mr Simpson is alive.”

“Hence my unhappiness.” said Jack, with a snarl, disgusted at her entertaining his suggestion.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, after a pause of some moments, “that you mean to make me feel that I have no business with your private affairs. I did not mean—”

“You suppose nothing of the sort,” said he, losing his temper. “When have I concealed any of my affairs from you?”

“Then you do not really intend to — I mean, the person you said you were in love with, is a myth.”

“Pshaw! I never said I was in love with anyone.”

“I might have known as much if I had thought for a moment. I am very dull sometimes.”

This speech did not satisfy Jack. “What do you mean by that,” he said testily. “Why might you have known? I never said I was in love, certainly. Have I said I was not in love?

“Come,” she said gaily. “You shall not play shuttlecock with my brains any longer. Answer me plainly. Are you in love?”

“I tell such things as that to sincere friends only.”

Mary suddenly ceased to smile, and made no reply.

“Well, if you are my friend, what the devil do you see in my affairs to laugh at? You can be serious enough with other people.”

“I did not mean to laugh at your affairs.”

“What are you angry about?”

“I am not angry. moment ago you reproached me because I thought you wished to repel my curiosity. The reproach seemed to me to imply that you considered me a friend worthy of your confidence.”

“So I do.”

“And now you tell me that I am an insincere friend.”

“I never said anything of the kind.”

“You implied it. However, there is no reason why you should tell me anything unless you wish to. I do not complain, of course; your affairs are your affairs and not mine. But I do not like to be accused of insincerity. I have always been as sincere with you as I know how to be.”

For the next minute Jack walked on in silence, with his hands clasped behind him, and his head bent towards the ground. They were crossing a treeless part of the park, unoccupied save by a few sooty sheep. The afternoon sun had driven the loiterers into the shade; and there was no sound except a distant rattle of traffic from the north, and an occasional oar-splash from the south. Jack stopped, and said without looking up: “Tell me this. Is all that business between you and Herbert broken off and done with?”

“Completely.”

“Then listen to me,” he said, taking an attitude in which she had seen him once or twice before, when he had been illustrating his method of teaching elocution. “I am not a man to play the part of a lover with grace. Nature gave me a rough frame that I might contend the better with a rough fortune. Nevertheless I have a heart and affections like other men; and those affections have centred themselves on you.” Mary blanched, and looked at him in terror. “You are accustomed to my ardent temper; but I do not intend that you shall suffer from bad habits of mine, engendered by a life of solitude and the long deferring of my access, through my music, to my fellow creatures. No: I am aware of my failings, and shall correct them. You know my position; and so I shall make no boast of it. You may think me incapable of tenderness,but I am not: you will never have to complain that your husband does not love you.” He paused and looked at Mary’s face.

She had never had a thought of marrying Jack. Now that he had asked her to do so she felt that refusal would cause a wound she dared not inflict: she must must sacrifice herself to his demand. To fill the empty place in Jack’s heart seemed to her a duty laid on her. She summoned all her courage and endurance to say yes with the thought that she would not live long. Meanwhile, Jack was reading her face.

“I have committed my last folly,” he said, in a stirring voice, but with. his habitual abruptness. “Henceforth I shall devote myself to the only mistress I am fitted for, Music. She has not many such masters.

Mary, yielding to an extraordinary emotion, burst into tears.

“Come,” he said: “it is all over. I did not mean to to frighten you. I have broken with the world now; and my mind is the clearer and the easier for it. Why need you cry?”

She recovered herself, trying to find something to say to him. In her disquietude she began to speak before her agitation had subsided. “It is not,” she said with difficulty, “that I am ungrateful or insensible. But you do not know how far you stand beyond other—”

“Yes, yes,” he said soothingly. “I understand. You are right: I have no business in the domestic world, and must stick to music and Mrs Simpson to the end of the chapter. Come along; and think no more of it. I will put you into a cab and send you home.”

She turned with him; and they went together towards the Marble Arch: he no longer moody, but placid and benevolent: she disturbed, silent, and afraid to meet his gaze. It was growing late. One of the religious congregations which hold their summer meetings in the park had assembled; and their hymn could be heard, softened by distance. Jack hummed a bass to the tune, and looked along the line of trees that shut out the windows of Park Lane, and led away to the singular equestrian statue which then stood at Hyde Park Corner.

“This is a pretty place, after all,” he said. “There is enough blue sky and green sward here to compensate for a good deal of brick and mortar. Down there in the hollow there is silver water with white swans on it. I wonder how the swans keep themselves white. The sheep can’t.”

“Yes, it is an exquisite day,” said Mary, trying hard to interest herself in the scene, and to speak steadily, “There will be a fine sunset.”

“There is a good view of the Duke of Wellington here.”

“Happily, I cannot see so far. But I can imagine the monster swimming sooty in the ether.”

“Leave him in peace,” said Jack. “He is the only good statue in London: that is why no one has the courage to say a word in his defence. His horse is like a real horse with real harness. He is not exposed bareheaded in the weather, but wears a hat as any other man in the street does. He is not a stupid imitation of an antique bas-relef. He is characteristic of the century that made him; and he is unique, as a work of art should be. He is picturesque too, The — Come, come, Miss Mary, You have no more cause to to be unhappy than those children swinging on the rail there. What are those tears for?

“Not because I am unhappy,” she replied in a broken voice. “Perhaps because I have such a reason to be proud. Pray, do not mind me. I cannot help it.”

They were now close to the Marble Arch; and Jack hurried on that she might the sooner escape the staring of the loungers there. Outside he called a cab and assisted her to enter.

“You will never be afraid of me any more, I hope.” He said, pressing her hand. She attempted to speak; gulped down a sob; and nodded and smiled as gaily as she could, her tears falling meanwhile. He watched the cab until it was no longer distinguishable among the crowd of vehicles on Oxford Street, and then reentered the Park and turned to the West, which was now beginning to glow with the fire of evening. When he reached the bridge at which the Serpentine of Hyde Park is supposed to turn into the Long Water of Kensington Gardens, he stopped to see the sun set behind the steeple of Bayswater Church, and to admire the clear depths of hazel green in the pools underneath the foliage on the left bank. “I hanker for a wife” he said, as he stood bolt upright, with his knuckles resting lightly on the parapet. I grovel after money! What dogs appetites have this worldly crew infected me with! No matter, I am free: I am myself again. Back to the holy garret, oh my soul.” And having stared the sunset out of countenance, which is soon done by a man old enough to have hackneyed the sentimentality it inspires, he walked steadfastly away, his mood becoming still more tranquil as the evening fell darker.

On reaching Church Street, he called for Mrs Simpson; gave her a number of postage stamps which he had just purchased; and ordered her to write in his name to all his pupils postponing their lessons until he should write to them again. Being an indifferent speller and a slovenly writer, she grumbled that he was risking his income by treating his pupils so cavalierly. It was his custom to meet her remonstrances, even when he acted on them, with oaths and abuse. This evening he let her say what she wished, meanwhile arranging his table to write at. His patience was so far from appeasing her that she at last ventured to say that she would not write his letters and turn good money away.

“You will do as you are told,” he said; “for the devils also believe and tremble.” And with that explanation, he bade her make him some coffee, and put her out of the room.

Whilst Mary was being driven home from the park, she was for some time afraid that she must succumb publicly to a fit of hysterics. But after a few painful minutes, her throat relaxed; a feeling of oppression at her chest ceased; and when the cab stopped at Mr Phipson’s house she was able to offer the fare composedly to the driver, who refused it, saying that the gentleman had paid it in advance. She then went upstairs to her own room to weep. When she arrived there, however, she found that she had no more tears to shed. She went to the mirror, and stood motionless before it. It shewed her a face expressing deep grief. She looked pityingly at it; and it looked back at her with intensified dolor. This lasted for more than a minute, during which she conveyed such a profundity of sadness into her face that she had no attention to spare for the lightening of her heart which was proceeding rapidly meanwhile. Then her nostrils gave a sudden twitch; she burst out laughing, and the self-reproach which followed this outrage on sentiment did not prevent her from immediately laughing all the more.

“After all,” she said, seizing a jug of cold water and emptying it with a splash into a basin, “it is not more ridiculous to laugh at nothing than to look miserable about it.” So she washed away the traces of her tears and went down to dinner as gaily as usual.

A fortnight elapsed, during which she heard nothing of Jack, and sometimes thought that she had done better when she had cried at his declaration, than when she had laughed at her own emotion. Then, one evening, Mr Phipson announced that the Antient Orpheus Society were about to make an important acquisition— “one, said he, looking at Mary, “that will specially interest you.”

“Something by old Jack?” said Charlie, who was dining there that day.

“A masterpiece by him, I hope,” said Mr. Phipson. “He has written to say that he has composed music to the Prometheus Unbound of Shelley: four scenes with chorus, a dialogue of Prometheus with the earth, an antiphony of the earth and moon, an overture, and a race of the hours.”

“Shelley!” exclaimed Mary incredulously.

“I should have thought that Dr. Johnson was the proper poet for Jack,” said Charlie.

“It is a magnificent subject,” continued Mr Phipson; “and if he has done justice to it, the work will be the crowning musical achievement of this century. I have no doubt whatever that he has succeeded; for he says himself that his music is the complement of the poetry, and fully worthy of it. He would never venture so say so if he were not conscious of having done something almost stupendous.”

“Modesty never was one of his failings,” remarked Charlie.

“I feel convinced that the music will be — will be—” said Mr. Phipson, waving his hand, and seeking an expressive word, “will be something apocalyptic, if I may use the term. We have agreed to offer him five hundred pounds for the copyright, with the exclusive privilege of performance in the British Isles; and we have reason to believe that he will accept this offer. Considering that the music will doubtless be very difficult, and will involve the expense of a chorus and an enlarged band, with several rehearsals, it is a fairly liberal offer. Maclagan objected, of course; and some of the others suggested three hundred and fifty; but I insisted on five hundred. We could not decently offer less. Besides, the Modern Orpheus will try to snatch the work from us. The overture is actually in the hand the copyist, and the rest will be complete in a month at latest.”

“Certainly you must have more money than you know what to do with, if you to pay five hundred pounds for a thing you have never seen,” said Mrs Phipson.

“We shall pay it without the least mistrust,” said Mr Phipson, pompously “Jack is a great composer; one whose rugged exterior conceals a wonderful gift, as pearl is protected by an oyster shell.

“But he cannot possibly have composed the whole work in a fortnight.” said Mary.

“Of course not. What makes you suggest a fortnight?

“Nothing,” said Mary. “At least I heard that he had given no lessons during the past fortnight.

“He has been planning it for a long time, you may depend upon it. Still, there are instances of extraordinary expedition in musical composition. The Messiah was completed by Handel in twenty-one days; and Mozart—”

Mr Phipson went on to relate anecdotes of overtures and and whole acts added to operas in a single night. He was a diligent concert-goer and always read the analytical programs carefully, so he had a fund of such tales, more or less authentic, to relate. Mary, who had heard most of them before, looked attentive and let her thoughts wander.

Some days later, however, when Mary asked for further news of Prometheus Unbound, she found his tone changed. On being pressed he admitted that he had induced the Antient Orpheus Society to make a doubtful bargain. The overture and two of the scenes had been completed and delivered to the society by Jack; and no one, said Mr Phipson, had been able to contradict Maclagan’s verdict that “the music, most fortunately, was inexecutable.” A letter had been carefully drawn up to inform Jack as gently as possible of the fate of his work. “So prodigious,” it said, “were the technical difficulties of the work; so large and expensive the forces required to present it adequately; and so doubtful the prospect of its acceptance by a miscellaneous audience in the existing condition of public taste, that the Committee were obliged to confess, with deep regret, that they dared not make arrangements for its early production. If Mr. Jack had by him any more practicable composition, however short it might fall of the Prometheus in point of vastness of design, they would be willing to permit of its being substituted without prejudice to those conditions in their agreement which had been inserted in the interest of the composer.”

To this Jack had replied that they should have Prometheus or nothing; that there was not a note in the score which was not practicable with a reasonable degree of trouble; that he could find no precedents on which to base the slightest regard for the sagacity of the Society; that he cared not one demi-semi-quaver whether they held to their bargain or not, as he would find no difficulty in disposing of his work; and that he insisted on their either returning the score at once, or paying the first installment of five hundred pounds for it, as agreed upon. He added in a postscript that if they accepted the work, he should require strict fulfillment of the clause binding the Society to one public performance of it in London. The Society, which was old enough to have shelved certain works purchased from Beethoven for similar reasons those given to Jack, hesitated, quarreled internally, and at last resolved to hold a private rehearsal of the overture before deciding. Manlius made earnest efforts to comprehend and like this section of the work, which was to occupy half an hour in performance, and was, in fact, a symphony. He only partially succeeded, and he found the task of conducting the rehearsal unusually disagreeable. The players, confident and willing, did wonders in the estimation of Maclagan, but the first repetition broke down twice, and those who who were at fault lost temper and cursed mutinously within hearing of Manlius, who was himself confused and angry. When it was over at last, a dubious murmur rose from the stalls Where the Committee sat in judgment, and a few of the older members protested against a second trial. They were overruled, and the overture was repeated, this time without any stoppage.

“Certainly,” said Mr Phipson, describing his sensations to Mary, “It contained grand traits. But these were only glimpses in the midst of chaos, I had to give in to Maclagan, acknowledging that the most favorable account I could give of it was that it impressed me as might the aberrations of a demented giant. He was quite frantic about it, and fairly talked us down with examples of false relations and incorrect progressions from every bar of the score. Old Brailsford, who is one of the old committee, turned up for the first time in years expressly to support Jack’s interests. He said it was the most infernal conglomeration of sounds he had ever listened to, and I must say many of us privately agreed with him.

This conversation took place at the dinner table, and was prolonged by Mrs Phipson, who taunted her husband with his disregard of her warning not to pay five hundred pounds for what she termed a pig in a poke. She was a talkative woman, shallow, jolly, and unscrupulous, with a shrewd and selfish side to her character which indulgent people never saw. Mary saw it clearly; and as, to her taste, Mrs Phipson was vulgar, she was not very fond of her, and often felt indignant at her ridicule of her husband’s boastful but sincere love of music. On this occasion, seeing that Mr Phipson was getting sulky, and that his wife was perversely minded to make him worse, she left the table quietly without waiting for her hostess, and went upstairs alone to the drawingroom. There, to her surprise, she found a strange man, lounging on a sofa with an album in his hands.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mary, retreating.

“Not at all,” said the man, rising in disorder. “I hope I’m not in the way. Miss Sutherland, perhaps.”

“Yes,” said Mary coldly; for she could not see him distinctly, and his manner of addressing her, though a little confused, struck her as being too familiar.

“Very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Sutherland. Nanny wrote me word that you were staying here. I recognize you by your photograph too. I hope I don’t disturb you.” He added this doubtfully, her attitude being still anything but reassuring.

“Not at all,” said Mary, taking the nearest seat, which happened to be a piece of furniture shaped like the letter S, with a seat in each loop, so that the occupants, placed opposite one another, could converse at their ease across the rail. She then settled her glasses deliberately upon her nose and looked at him with a certain hardihood of manner which came to her whenever she was seized with nervousness, and was determined not to give way to it. He was a tall, jovial looking man, not yet quite middleaged, stout, or florid, but, as she judged, within five years of being all three. He had sandy hair and a red beard, cleft into two long whiskers of the shape formerly known to fashion as “weepers.” His expression was goodnatured and, at this moment, conciliatory, as though he wished to disarm any further stiffness on her part. But she thought she saw also saw admiration in his eyes and she continued to gaze at him inflexibly. He looked wistfully at the conversation chair but sat down on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“This is a very convenient neighborhood, isn’t it?” he said.

“Very.”’

“Yes. T am sure you must find it so. You are within easy distance of both the parks, and all the theatres. Kensington is too far out of the way for my fancy. How long does it take to go from here to Covent Garden Market now, for instance?”

“I am sorry I cannot tell you,” said Mary calmly, looking at him with unflinching eyes: “I never go there.”

“Indeed! I wonder at that. You can get tremendous bargains in flowers, I believe, if you go there early in the morning. Do you like flowers?”

“I do not share the fashionable mania for cut flowers. I like gardening.”

“I quite agree with you, Miss Sutherland. I often think, when I see every little vase or knick-knack in a room stuffed with tulips and lilies and things, what a want of real taste it shews. I was looking at that beautiful painting over the music stand just before you came in. May I ask is it one of yours?”

“Yes. If you look closely at it you will see my name written in large vermilion letters in the left hand corner.”

I saw it. That’s how I knew it to be yours. It’s a capital picture: I often regret that I never learned to paint, though I know I should never have done it half as well as you. It’s a very nice occupation for a lady. It is mere child’s play to you, I suppose.”

“I have given it up because I find it too difficult.”

“But nobody could do it better than you. However, it runs away with your time, no doubt. Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t give it up altogether.”

“You are fond of pictures, I presume.”

“Yes. I have a great taste for them. I go to the National Gallery whenever I come to London, to have a look at Landseer’s pictures. I sometimes see young ladies copying the pictures there. Did you ever copy one of Landseer’s?”

“No. Strange as it may appear to you, there are some pictures there which I prefer to Landseer’s.”

“You understand the old masters, you see. I don’t, unfortunately. I should like to be able to talk to you about them; but if I tried it on, you would find out in no time that I know nothing about it. Put me into a gallery, and I can tell you what pictures I like: that’s about as far as I can go.”

“I wish I could go as far.”

“I am afraid you are chaffing me, Miss Sutherland.”

Mary did not condescend to reply. The strange man, now somewhat discomfited, rose and stood with his back to the fireplace, as if to warm himself at the Japanese umbrella that protruded from it.

“Beautiful weather,” he said after a pause.

“Very beautiful indeed.” she replied, gravely. Then, to prevent herself from laughing at him, “Have you been long in London?”

“Arrived yesterday.” he said, brightening. “I came straight from New York via Liverpool. I’m always traveling. Have you ever been to the States?”

“No.”

You should go there and see what real life is. We’re all asleep here. I only left England last March; and I’ve started six branches of our company since that, besides obtaining judgment against two scoundrels who infringed our patent. Quick work, that.”

“Is it?”

“I should think so. It would have taken two years to do here. More: five years perhaps. The Americans can’t resist a new thing as we do. But no matter, unless they look alive here, they will be driven out of the market by foreign manufacturers using our cheap power.”

“Your cheap power! What is that?”

“I thought you knew. Why, the Conolly electro-motor, which will drive any machinery at half — aye, at a quarter of the cost of steam. You have heard of it, of course.”

“I think so. I have met Mr. Conolly. He does not seem like a man who could do anything badly.”

“Badly! I should think not. He’s an amazing man. They talk of Seth Jones’s motor; and Van Print claims to be the original inventor of Conolly’s commutator. But they are a couple of thieves. I can shew you the report of Conolly versus the Pacific—”

“Johnny!” exclaimed Mrs. Phipson, entering. “I thought it was your voice.”

“How d’ye do, Nan?” said he. “How are the bairns?”

“Oh, we’re all first rate. Have you been here long?”

“It seems only half a minute, Miss Sutherland has been entertaining me so pleasantly.” And he winked and frowned at Mrs Phipson, to intimate that he desired to be introduced.

“Then you know each other already,” she said. “This is my brother, Mr Hoskyn. I hope you have not been bothering Mary with your electro business.”

“Mr Hoskyn was giving me a most interesting account of it when you came in,” said Mary.

“You can finish it some other time,” said Mrs Phipson. “Inflict it on the next person who has the misfortune to get shut into a railway carriage with you. When did you come back?”

Mr Hoskyn glanced apprehensively at Mary, and did not seem to like his sister’s remark, though he laughed goodhumoredly at it. The conversation then turned upon his recent movements; the length of time he expected to remain in London; and so forth.

Mary gathered that he had invested money in the Conolly Electro-Motor Company, and that he occupied himself in traveling to countries where the electro-motor was yet unknown, establishing companies for its exploitation; and making them pay for the right to use it. Mrs. Phipson was evidently tired of the subject, and made attempts to prevent his dwelling on it; but, in spite of her, he boasted a good deal of the superiority of Connely’s invention, and predicted ruin for certain other companies which had been set on foot to promote rival projects. He was effectually interrupted at last by the appearance of the younger children, who were excited by the arrival of Uncle Johnnie, and, Mary thought, looked forward to being the richer for his visit. Mr Hoskyn’s attention to them, however, flagged after the first few minutes; and Mrs Phipson, who was always impatient of her children’s presence, presently bade them to go and tell their father that Uncle Johnnie had come. They were, she added, on no account to return to the drawingroom. Their faces lengthened at this dismissal; but they did not venture to disregard it. Then Mr Phipson came; and his brother-in-law said much to him of what he had said before. Mary took no part in the conversation; but she occupied a considerable share of Mr Hoskyn’s attention. Whenever he pronounced an opinion, or cracked a joke, he glanced at her to see whether she approved of it, and always found her in the same attitude, self-possessed, with her upper lip lifted a little from her teeth by the poise of her head, which she held well up in order to maintain her glasses in their position; and by a slight contraction of her brows to shade her eyes from the superfluous rays.

“I need hardly ask whether Miss Sutherland sings,” he said, when he had repeated all his news to Mr Phipson.

“Very seldom,” replied his sister. Now Mary had a powerful and rather strident contralto voice, which enabled her to sing dramatic music with startling expression and energy. Mrs Phipson, who did not like these qualities, said “Very seldom,” in order to deter her brother from pressing his suggestion. But Mr Phipson, who relished Mary’s performances, and was also fond of playing accompaniments, immediately went to the piano, and opened it.

“I would give anything to hear you,” said Hoskyn, “if you will condescend to sing for such an ignorant audience as me.”

“I had much rather not,” said Mary, shewing signs of perturbation for the first time. “I sing nothing that would amuse you.”

“Of course not,” said he. “I know you don’t sing ballads and such trash. Something Italian, I should like to hear.”

“Come,” said Mr. Phipson. “Give us Che faro senza Euridice, And he began to play it.

Mary, after a moment’s hesitation, resigned herself, and went to the instrument. Mrs Phipson sighed. Hoskyn sat down on the ottoman; leaned attentively forward; and smiled continuously until the song was over, when he cried with enthusiasm: “Bravo! Splendid, splendid! You are quite equal to any professional singer I ever heard, Miss Sutherland. There is nothing like real Italian music after all. Thank you very much: I cannot remember when I enjoyed anything half so well”

“It is not Italian music,” said Mary, resuming her former attitude in the causeuse. “It is German music With Italian words.”

“It might as well be Chinese music fur all he knows about it.” said Mrs Phipson spitefully.

“I know that I enjoyed it thoroughly, at any rate,” said Hoskyn. “I have taken such a fancy to that picture on the wall that I should like to see some of your sketches, if you will favor me so far.”

Mary felt bound to be civil to Mrs Phipson’s brother: else she might have lost patience with Mr Hoskyn. “My sketches are in that book,” she said, pointing to a portfolio. “But they are not intended for show purposes, and if you have no real curiosity to see them, pray do not be at the trouble of turning them over. I do not paint for the sake of displaying an extra accomplishment.

“I quite understand that. It is as natural to you to do all these things as it is for me to walk or sleep. You can hardly think how much pleasure a song or a sketch gives me, because, you see, they are everyday things with you, whereas I could no more paint or sing in Italian than little Nettie upstairs. So, if you’ll allow me, I’ll take a peep. If I bring them over here, you can show them to me better.” And, on this pretext, he got into the causeuse with her at last.

“Fool!” commented Mrs. Phipson through her teeth to Mr Phipson, who smiled and strummed on the piano. Hoskyn meanwhile examined the sketches one by one; demanded a particular account of each; and, when they represented places at which he had been, related such circumstances of his visit as he could recollect, usually including the date, the hotel charges, and particulars of his fellow travelers; as, for instance, that there were two Italian ladies staying there; or that a lot of Russians took the whole of the first floor, and were really very polite people when you came to know them. Mary answered his questions patiently, and occasionally, when he appealed to her for confirmation of his opinions, gave him a cool nod, after each of which he grew more pleased and talkative. He praised her drawings extravagantly; and she, seeing that the worst satisfied him as well as the best, made no further attempt to deprecate his admiration, listening to it with self-possessed indifference. Mrs Phipson yawned conspicuously all the time. Failing to move him by this means, she at last asked him whether he would take supper with them, or return at once to wherever he was staying. He replied that he was staying round the corner at the Langham Hotel, and that he would wait for supper, to which Mrs Phipson assented with a bad grace. Just then Mary, hearing screams from the nursery pretended that she wished to see what was the matter, and left the room. She did not return; and Hoskyn, on going down to supper, was informed, to his heavy disappointment, that she never partook of that meal.

“So you might have saved yourself the trouble of staying, after all,” said Mrs Phipson. “Will you have a wing or a bit of the breast?”

“Anything, please. On my soul, Phipson, I think she is the nicest girl I ever met. She is really very handsome.”

“Handsome!” cried Mrs Phipson, indignantly. Don’t be a fool, Johnny.”

“Why? Don’t you think she is?”

“She isn’t even plain: she is downright ugly.”

“Oh come, Nanny! That is a little too much. What fault can you find with her face?”

“What fault is there that I cannot find? To say nothing of her features, which even you can hardly defend, look at her coarse black hair and thick eyebrows. And then she wears spectacles.”

“No. Not spectacles. Only nosers, Nanny. They are quite the fashion now.”

“Well, whatever you choose to call them. If you consider a pince-nez ornamental, your taste is peculiar.”

“I agree with you, John,” said Mr Phipson. “I admire Mary greatly.”

‘*If she were twice as handsome,” interposed Mrs Phipson, as Hoskyn’s eyes brightened triumphantly, “it would be none the better for you. She is engaged.”

Hoskyn looked at her in dismay. Mr Phipson Seemed surprised.

“Engaged to Adrian Herbert, the artist,” continued Mrs Phipson, “who can talk to her about high art until she fancies him the greatest genius in England: not like you, who think yourself very clever when you have spent an hour in shewing her that you know nothing about it.”

“My dear,” remonstrated Mr Phipson: “that business with Herbert is all broken off. You should be a little careful. He is going to be married to Sczympliça.”

“You may believe as much of that as you please,” said Mrs Phipson. “Even supposing that she really is done with Herbert, there is Jack. A nice chance you have Johnny, with the greatest lion in London for a rival.”

“Annie,” said Mr Phipson: “you are talking recklessly. There is no reason to suppose that there is anything between Mary and Jack. Jack is not — in that sense, at least — a ladies’ man.”

“As to that,” said Hoskyn, “I will take my chance beside any artist that ever walked on two legs. They can talk to her about things that I may not be exactly au fait at; but, for the matter of that, if I chose to talk shop, I could tell her a few things that she would be a long time finding out from them. No, Nanny: the question is, Is she engaged? If she is, then I’m off; and there’s an end of the business. If not, I guess I’ll try and see some more of her, in spite of all the painters and musicians in creation. So, which is it?”

“She is quite free,” said Mr. Phipson. “She was engaged to Herbert; but it was an old arrangement, made when they were children, I believe; and at all events it was given up some time ago. I think there will be a little money too, John. And I fancy from her manner that she was struck with you.” Mr Phipson winked at his wife, and laughed.

“I don’t know about that,” said Hoskyn; “but I am out-and-out struck with her. As to money, that needn’t stand in the way, though I shan’t object to take whatever is going.”

“You are so particularly well suited to a girl who cares for nothing but fine art crazes of which you don’t even know the names,” said Mrs Phipson sourly, “that she will jump at your offer, no doubt. It is no wonder for her to be shortsighted, she reads so much. And she knows half the languages of Europe.”

“I should think so,” said Hoskyn. “You can see intellect in her face. That’s the sort of woman I like. None of your empty headed wax dolls. I’m not surprised that you don’t approve of her, Nanny. You are sharp enough, but you never knew anything, and never will.”

“I don’t pretend to be clever. And I don’t disapprove of her; but I disapprove of you, at your age, thinking of a girl who is, in every way, unfit for you.”

“We shall see all about that. I am quite content to take my chance, if she is. She can’t live on high art, and I expect she is sensible enough in everyday matters. Besides, I shall not interfere with her. The more she paints and sings, the better pleased I shall be.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mr Phipson. “Let us about a license at once. The season will be over in three weeks and, of course, you Would prefer to be married before then.”

“ Chaff away,” said Hoskyn, rising. “I must be off now. You may expect to see me pretty soon again, and if you don’t hear people wondering ring next season how Johnny Hoskyn managed to get such a clever wife — why, I shall be worse disappointed than you. Good night.”