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One evening the concert room in St. James’s Hall was crowded with people waiting to hear the first public performance of a work by Mr Owen Jack, entitled Prometheus Unbound. It wanted but a minute to eight o’clock; the stalls were filling rapidly; the choristers were already in their seats; and there was a din of tuning from the band. Not far from the orchestra sat Mr John Hoskyn, with a solemn air of being prepared for the worst, and carefully finished at the tie, gloves and hair. Next him was his wife, in a Venetian dress of garnet colored plush. Her black hair was gathered upon her neck by a knot of deep sea green; and her dark eyes peered through lenses framed in massive gold.

On the foremost side bench, still nearer to the orchestra, was a young lady with a beautiful and intelligent face. She was more delicately shaped than Mrs Hoskyn, and was dressed in white. Her neighbors pointed her out to one another as the Szczympliça; but she was now Mrs Adrian Herbert. Her husband was with her; and his regular features seemed no less refined and more thoughtful than those of his wife. Mrs Hoskyn looked at him earnestly for some time. Then she turned as though to look at her husband; but she checked herself in this movement, and directed her attention to the entry of Manlius.

I have counted the band,” whispered Hoskyn; “and it’s eighty-five strong. They can’t give them much less than seven and sixpence apiece for the night, which makes thirty-two pounds all but half a crown, without counting the singers.”

“Nonsense,” said Mary, after looking round apprehensively to see whether her husband’s remark had been overheard. Five pounds apiece would be nearer the — Hush.”

The music had just begun; and Hoskyn had to confine his repudiation of Mary’s estimate to an emphatic shake of the head. The overture, anxiously conducted by Manlius, who was very nervous, lasted nearly half an hour. When it was over, there was silence for a moment, then faint applause, then sounds of disapproval, then sufficient applause to overpower these and finally a buzz of conversation. A popular baritone singer, looking very uncomfortable, rose to carry on his part of dialogue between Promethius and the earth, which was the next number of the work. The chorus singers also rose, and fixed their eyes stolidly, but desperately, on the conductor, who hardly ventured to look at them. The dialogue commenced, but the the attention of the audience was presently diverted by the appearance of Jack himself, who was seen to cross the room with an angry countenance, and go out. The conclusion of the dialogue was unbroken silence, in the midst of which the popular baritone sat down with an air of relief.

“I find that the music is beginning to grow upon me, said Mrs Hoskyn.

“Do you?” said Hoskyn. “I wish it would grow quicker. I’m only joking,” he added, seeing that she was disappointed. “It’s splendid. I wish I knew enough about it to like it; but I can see that it has the real classical style. When those brass things come in, it’s magnificent.”

Two eminent songstresses now came forward as Asia and Panthea; and the audience prepared themselves for the relief of a pretty duet. But Asia and Panthea sang as strangely as Prometheus, in spite of which they gained some slow, uncertain, grudging applause. The Race of the Hours, which followed, was of great length, progressing from a lugubrious midnight hour in E flat minor to a sunrise in A major, and culminating with a jubilant clangor of orchestra and chorus which astounded the audience, and elicited a partly hysterical mixture of hand clapping and protesting hisses.

“How stupid these people are!” exclaimed Mrs Adrian Herbert. “What imbecility! They do not know that it is good music. Heaven!”

“I must confess that, to my ear, there is not a note of music in it,” said Adrian.

“Is it possible!” said Aurélie. “But it is superb! Splendid!”

“It is ear splitting,” said Adrian. “Your ears are hardier than mine, perhaps. I hope we shall hear some melody in the next part, by way of variety.”

“Without doubt we shall. It is a work full of melody.”

Herbert was confirmed in his opinion by the final number, entitled, “Antiphony of the Earth and Moon,” which was listened to in respectful bewilderment by the audience, and executed with symptoms of exhaustion by the chorus.

“By George,” said Hoskyn, joining heartily in some applause which began in the cheaper seats, “that sounded stupendous. I’d like to hear it again.”

The clapping, though not enthusiastic, was now general, all being goodnaturedly willing that the composer should be called forward in acknowledgment of his efforts, if not of his success. Jack, who had returned to hear the “Race of the Hours,” again arose; and those who knew him clapped more loudly, thinking that he was on his way to the orchestra. It proved that he was on his way to the door; for he went out as ungraciously as before.

“How disappointing.”said Mary. “He is so hasty.

“Serves them right,”said Hoskyn. “I like his pluck; and you make take my word for it, Mary, that is a sterling piece of music. It reminds me of the Pacific railroad.”

“Of course it is. Even you can see that,” said Mary, who did not quite see it herself. “It is mere professional jealousy that prevents the people here from applauding properly, They are all musicians of some kind or another.”

“They are going to give us ten minutes law before they begin again. Let us take a walk round, and find what Nanny thinks.”

Meanwhile Aurélie was almost in tears. Mr Phipson had just come up to them, shaking his head sadly. “As I feared,” he said. “As I feared.”

“It is a shame,” she said indignantly, “a shame unworthy of the English people. Of what use is it to write music for such a world?”

“It is far above their heads,” said Phipson. “I told him so.”

“And their insolence is far beneath his feet,” said Aurélie. “Oh, it is a scene to plunge an artist in despair.”

“It does not plunge me into despair,” said Adrian, with quiet conviction. “The work has failed; and I venture to say that it deserved to fail.”

“It is unworthy of you to say so,” exclaimed Aurélie passionately, throwing herself back in her seat and turning away from him.

“Deserved is perhaps a hard word under the circumstances, Mr Herbert,” said Phipson. “The work is a very remarkable one, and far beyond the comprehension of the public. Jack has been much too bold. Even our audiences will not listen with patience to movements of such length and complication. I greatly regret what has happened; for the people who are attracted by our concerts are representative of the highest musical culture in England. A work which fails here from its abstruseness has not the ghost of a chance of success elsewhere. Ah! Here is Mary.”

Some introductions followed. Hoskyn shook Adrian’s hand cordially, and made a low bow to Aurélie, whom he stole an occasional glance at, but did not at first venture to address. Aurélie looked at Mary’s dress with wonder.

“I am greatly annoyed by the way Mr Jack has been treated,” said Mary. “An audience of working people could not be more insensible to his genius than the people here have shewn themselves tonight.”

My wife is quite angry with me because I, too, am insensible to the beauties of Mr Jack’s composition,” said Herbert

“You always were,” said Mary. “Mr Hoskyn is delighted with Prometheus.”

“Is Mr Hoskyn musical?”

“More so than you, it appears, since he can appreciate Mr Jack.”

“Phipson then struck in on the merits of the music; and he, Mary, and Adrian, being old friends, fell into conversation together, to the exclusion of the husband and wife so recently added to their circle. Hoskyn, under these circumstances, felt bound to entertain Aurélie.

“I consider that we have had a most enjoyable evening,” he said. “I think there can be no doubt that Jack’s music is first rate of its kind.”

“Ah? Monsieur Jacque’s music. You find it goodh.”

“Very good indeed,”said Hoskyn, speaking loudly, as if to a deaf person. “Jilitrouvsplongdeed,” he added rashly.

“You are right, monsieur,” said Aurélie, speaking rapidly in French. “But it seems to me that there is unworthy — something infamous, in the icy stupidity of these people here: Of what use is it to compose great works when one is held in contempt because of them? It is necessary to be a trader here in order to have success. Commerce is the ruin of England. It renders the people quite inartistic.

“Jinipweevoocomprongder,” murmured Hoskyn. “The fact is,” he added, more boldly, “I only dropped a French word to help you out a little; but you mustn’t take advantage of that to talk to me out of my native language. I can speak French pretty well; but I never could understand other people speaking it.”

“Ah,” said Aurélie, who listened to his English with strained attention. “You understand me not very goodh. It is like me with English. But in this moment I make much progress. I have lesson every day from Monsieur Herbert.”

“You speak very well. Vooparlaytraybyang—” tootafaycumoononglays. Jinisoray — I mean I should not know from your speaking that you were a foreigner — oonaytronzhare.”

“Vraiment?” cried Aurélie, greatly pleased.

“Vraymong, “ said Hoskyn, nodding emphatically.

“It is sthrench. There is only a few months since I know not a word of the English.”

“You see you knew the universal language before.”

“Comment? La langue universelle?”

“I mean music. Music!” he repeated, seeing her still bewildered.

“Ah, yes,” said Aurélie, her puzzled expression vanishing. “You call music the universal language. It is true. You say very goodh.”

“It must be easy to learn anything after learning music. Music is so desperately hard. I am sure learning it must make people — spiritual, you know.”

“Yes, yes. You observe very justly, monsieur. I am quite of your advice. Understand you?”

“Parfatemong byang, “ said Hoskyn, confidently.

Here Mary interrupted the conversation by warning her husband that it was time to return to their places. As they did so, she said:

‘You must excuse me for abandoning you to the Szympliça, John. I suppose you could not say a word to one another.”

Why not? She’s a very nice woman; and we got on together splendidly. I always do manage to hit it off with foreigners, However, it was easy enough in her case; for she could speak broken English and didn’t understand it, whereas I could speak French but couldn’t understand the way she talked it — she’s evidently not a Frenchwoman. So she spoke to me in English; I answered her in French; and we talked as easily as I talk to you.”

Meanwhile Adrian could not refrain from commenting on Mary’s choice. “I wonder why she married that man,” he said to Aurélie. “I cannot believe that she would stoop to marry for money; and yet, seeing what he is, it is hard to believe that she loves him.”

“But why?” said Aurélie. “He is a little commercial; but all the English are so. And he is a man of intelligence. He has very choice ideas.”

“You think so, Aurélie!”

“Certainly. He has spoken very well to me. I assure you he has a very fine perception of music. It is difficult to understand him, because he does not speak French as well as I speak English; but it is evident that he has reflected much. As for her, she is fortunate to have so good a husband. What an absurd dress she wears. In any other part of the world she would be mocked at as a madwoman. Your scientific Mademoiselle Sutherland is, in my opinion, no great things.”

Adrian looked at his wife with surprise, and with some displeasure; but the music recommenced just then, and the conversation dropped. Some compositions of Mendelssohn were played; and these he applauded emphatically, whilst she sat silent with averted face. When the concert was over they saw the Hoskyns drive away in a neat carriage; and Herbert, who had never in his bachelor days envied any man the possession of such a luxury, felt sorry that he had to hire a hansom for his wife’s accommodation.

Adrian had not yet found a suitable permanent residence. They lived on the first floor of a house in the Kensington Road. Aurélie, who had always left domestic matters to her mother, knew little about housekeeping, and could not be induced to take an interest in house-hunting. The landlady at Kensington Road supplied them with food; and Adrian paid a heavy bill every week, Aurélie exclaiming that the amount was unheard of, and the woman wicked, but not taking any steps to introduce a more economical system.

They reached their lodging at a quarter before twelve; and Adrian, when Aurélie had gone upstairs, turned out the gas and chained the door, knowing that the rest of the household were in bed. As he followed her up, he heard the pianoforte, and, entering the room, saw her seated at it. She did not look round at him, but continued playing, with her face turned slightly upward and to one side — an attitude habitual to her in her musical moments. He moved uneasily about the room for some time; put aside his overcoat; turned down a jet of gas that flared; and rearranged some trifles on the mantelpiece. Then he said:

“Is it not rather late for the pianoforte, Aurélie? It is twelve o’clock: and the people of the house must be asleep.”

Aurélie started as if awakened; shrugged her shoulders; closed the instrument softly; and went to an easy chair, in which she sat down wearily.

Herbert was dissatisfied with himself for interrupting her, and angry with her for being the cause of his dissatisfaction Nevertheless, looking at her as she reclined in the chair, and seemed again to have forgotten his existence, he became enamored.

“My darling!”

“Eh?” she said.waking again, “Qu’est-ce, que c’est?”

“It has turned rather cold tonight Is it wise to sit in that thin dress when there is no fire?”

“I do not know.”

“Shall I get you a shawl?”

“It does not matter: I am not cold.” She spoke as if his solicitude only disturbed her.

“Aurélie,” he said, after a pause: “I heard tonight that my mother has returned to town.”

No answer.

“Aurélie,” he repeated petulantly. “Are you listening me?”

“Yes. I listen.” But she did not look at him.

“I said that my mother was in town. I think we had better call on her.*

“Doubtless you will call on her, if it pleases you to do so. Is she not your mother?”

“But you will come with me, Aurélie, will you not”

“Never. Never.”

“Not to oblige me. Aurélie?”

“It is not the same thing to oblige you as to oblige your mother. I am not married to your mother.”

Herbert winced. “That is a very harsh speech to English ears,” he said.

“I do not speak in English: I speak the language of my heart. Your mother has insulted me; and you are wrong to ask me to go to her. My mother has never offended you; and yet I sent her away because you did not like her, and because it is not the English custom that she should continue with me. I know you did not marry her; and I do not reproach you with harshness because she is separated from me. I will have the like freedom for myself.”

“Aurélie,” cried Herbert, who had been staring during most of her speech: “you are most unjust. Have I ever failed in courtesy towards your mother? Did I ever utter a word expressive of dislike to her?”

“You were towards her as you were towards all the world. You were very kind: I do not say otherwise.”

“In what way can my mother have insulted you? You have never spoken to her; and since a month before our wedding she has been in Scotland.”

“Where she went lest I should speak to her, no doubt. Why did she not speak to me when I last met her? She knew well that I was betrothed to you. She is proud, perhaps. Well, be it so. I also am proud. I am an artist; and queens have given me their hands frankly. Your mother holds that an English lady is above all queens. I hold that an artist is above all ladies. We can live without one another, as we have done hitherto. I do not seek to hinder you from going to her; but I will not go.”

“You mistake my mother’s motive altogether. She is not proud — in that way. She was angry because I did not allow her to choose a wife for me.”

“Well, she is angry still, no doubt. Of what use is it to anger her further?”

“She has too much sense to persist in protesting against what is irrevocable. You need not fear a cold welcome, Aurélie. I will make sure, before I allow you to go, that you shall be properly received.”

“I pray you, Adrian, annoy me no more about your mother. I do not know her: I will not know her. It is her own choice; and she must abide by it. Can you not go to her without me?”

“Why should I go to her without you”’ said Adrian, distressed. “Your love is far more precious to me than hers. You know how little tenderness there is between her and me. But family feuds are very objectionable. They are always in bad taste, and often lead to serious consequences. I wish you would for this once sacrifice your personal inclination, and help me to avert a permanent estrangement.”

“Ah yes,” exclaimed Aurélie,” rising indignantly. “You will sacrifice my honor to the conventions of your world.”

“It is an exaggeration to speak of such a trifle as affecting your honor. However, I will say no more. I would do much greater things for you than this that you will not do for me, Aurélie. But then I love you.”

“I do not want you to love me,” said Aurélie, turning towards the door with a shrug. “Go and love somebody else. Love Madame Hoskyn; and tell her how badly your wife uses you.”

Herbert made a step after her. “Aurélie,” he said: “if I submit to this treatment from you, I shall be the most infatuated slave in England.”

“I cannot help that. And I do not like you when you are a slave. It grows late.”

“Are you going to bed already?”

“Already! My God, it is half an hour after midnight! You are going mad, I think.”

“I think I am. Aurélie: tell me the truth honestly now: I cannot bear to discover it by the slow torture of watching you grow colder to me. Do you no longer love me?”

“Perhaps,” she said, indifferently. “I do not love you tonight, that is certain. You have been very tiresome.” And she left the room without looking at him. For some moments after her departure he remained motionless. Then he set his lips together; went to a bureau and took some money from it; put on his hat and overcoat; and took a sheet of paper from his desk. But after dipping a pen in the ink several times, he cast it aside without writing anything. As he did so, he saw on the mantelpiece a little brooch which Aurélie often wore at her throat. He took this up, and was about to put it into his pocket, when, giving way to a sudden impulse, he dashed it violently on the hearthstone. He then extinguished the light, and went out. When he had descended one stair, he heard a door above open, and a light foot fall on the landing above. He stopped and held his breath.

“Adrian, my dear, art thou there?”

“What is it?”

“When thou comest, bring me the little volume which lies on the piano. It is red; and my handkerchief is between the pages for a mark.”

He hesitated a moment. Then, saying, “Yes, my darling,” me he stole back into the drawing room; undid his preparations for flight; got the red book, and went upstairs, where he found his wife in bed, placidly unconscious of his recent proceedings, with the reading lamp casting a halo on her pillow.

It was Adrian’s habit to rise promptly when the servant knocked at his door at eight o’clock every morning. Aurélie, on the the contrary, was lazy, and often left her husband to breakfast by himself. On the morning after the concert he rose as usual, and made as much noise as possible in order to wake her. Not succeeding, he retired to his dressing room and, after a great splashing and rubbing, returned clad in a dressing gown.

“Aurélie.” A pause during which her regular breathing was audible. Then, more loudly “Aurélie.” She replied with a murmur. He added very loudly and distinctly, “It is twenty minutes past eight.”

She moved a little and uttered a strange sound, which he did not understand, but recognized as Polish. Then she said, drowsily in French, “Presently.”

“At once, if you please.” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Must I shake you?”

“No, no,” she rousing herself a little more. “Don’t shake me, I implore you.” Then, petulantly, “I will not be shaken. I am going to get up. Are there any letters?”

“I have not been downstairs yet.”

“Go and see.”

“You will be sure not to sleep again.”

“Yes, yes. I shall be down almost as soon as you. Bring me up the letters, if there are any.”

He returned to his dressing room; finished his toilet; and went downstairs. There were some letters. He looked at them, and went back to Aurélie. She was fast asleep.

“Oh, Anrelie! Aurélie! Really it is too bad. You are asleep again.”

“How you disturb me!” she said, opening her eyes, and sighing impatiently. “What hour is it?”

“You may well ask. It is twenty-five minutes to nine.”

“Is that all?”

“All! Come, Aurélie, there are three letters for you. Two are from Vienna.”

Aurélie sat up, awake and excited. “Quick,” she said. “Give them to me.”

“I left them downstairs.”

“Oh,” said Aurélie, disgusted. Adrian hurried from the room lest she should prevail upon him to bring up the letters. He occupied himself with the newspaper for the next fifteen minutes, at the end of which she appeared and addressed herself to her correspondence, leaving him to pour out tea for himself and for her. Nothing was said for some time. Then she exclaimed with emphasis, as though in contradiction of what she read:

“But it is certain that I will go.”

“Go where?” said Adrian, turning pale.

“To Vienna — to Prague — to Budapesth, my beloved Budapesth.”

“To Vienna!”

“They are going to give a Schumann concert in Vienna. They want me; and they shall have me. I have a specialty for the music of Schumann: no one in the world can play it as I can. And I long to see my Viennese friends. It is so stupid here.”

“But, Aurélie, I have my work to do. I cannot go abroad at this season of the year.”

“It is not necessary. I did not think of asking you to come. No. My mother will accompany me everywhere. She likes our old mode of life.”

“You mean, in short, to leave me,” he said, looking shocked.

“My poor Adrian,” she said, leaning over to caress him: “wilt thou be desolate without me? But fret not thyself: I will return with much money, and console thee. Music is my destiny, as painting is thine. We shall be parted but a little time.”

Adrian was pained, but could only look wistfully at her and say, “You seem to enjoy the prospect of leaving me, Aurélie.”

“I am tired of this life. I am forgotten in the world; and others take my place.”

“And will you be happier in Vienna than here?”

“Assuredly. Else wherefor should I desire to go? When I read in the journals of all the music in which I have no share, I almost die of impatience.”

“And I sometimes, when I am working alone in my studio, almost die of impatience to return to your side.”

“Bah! That is another reason for my going. It is not good for you to be so loving.”

“I fear that it too true, Aurélie. But will it be good for you to have no one near you who loves you?

“Oh, those who love me are everywhere. In Vienna there is a man — a student — six feet high, with fair hair, who gets a friend to make me deplorable verses which he pretends are his own. Heaven, how he loves me! At Leipzig there is an old professor, almost as foolish as thou, my Adrian. Ah, yes: I shall not want for lovers anywhere.”

“Aurélie, are you mad, or cruel, or merely simple, that you say these things to me?”

“Are you then jealous? Ha! ha! He is jealous of my fairhaired student and of my old professor. But fear nothing, my friend. For all these men my mother is a veritable dragon. They fear her more than they fear the devil, in whom, indeed, they do not believe.”

“If I cannot trust you, Aurélie, I cannot trust your mother.”

“You say well. And when you do not trust me, you shall never see me again. I was only mocking. But I must start the day after tomorrow. You must come with me to Victoria, and see that my luggage is right. I shall not know how to travel without my mother.”

“Until you are in her hands, I will not lose sight of you, my dear treasure,” said Adrian tenderly. “You will write often to me, will you not, Aurélie?”

“I cannot write — you know it, Adrian. Mamma shall write to you: she always has abundance to say. I must practise hard; and I cannot sit down and cramp my fingers with a pen. I will write occasionally — I am sure to want something.”

Adrian finished his breakfast in silence, glancing at her now and again with a mixture of rapture and despair.

“And so,” he said, when the meal was over, “I am to lose you, Aurélie.”

Go, go,” she replied: “I have much preparation to make; and you are in my way. You must paint hard in your studio until very late this evening.”

“I thought of giving myself a holiday, and staying at home with you, dearest, as we are so soon to be separated.”

“Impossible,” cried Aurélie, alarmed. “My God, what a proposition! You must stay away more than ever, I have to practise, and to think of my dresses: I must absolutely be alone” Adrian took up his hat dejectedly. “My soul and my life, how I tear thy heart!” she added fondly, taking his face between her hands and kissing him. He went out pained, humiliated, and ecstatically happy.

Aurélie was busy all the morning. Early in the afternoon she placed Schumann’s concerto in A minor on the desk of the pianoforte, arranged her seat before it, and left the room. When she returned, she had changed her dress and was habited in silk. She bore her slender and upright figure more proudly before her imaginary audience than she usually ventured to do before a real one, and when had taken her place at the instrument, she played the concerto as she was not always fortunate to play it in public. Before she had finished the door was thrown open, and a servant announced “Mrs Herbert.” Aurélie started up frowning, and had but just time to regain her thoughtful expression and native distinction of manner when her motherin-law entered, looking as imposing as a wellbred Englishwoman can without making herself ridiculous.

“I fear I disturbed you,” she said, advancing graciously.

“Not at all. I am very honored, madame. Please to sit down.”

Mrs Herbert had intended to greet her son’s wife with a kiss. But Aurélie, giving her hand with dignified courtesy, was not approachable enough for that. She was not distant; but neither was she cordial. Mrs Herbert sat down, a little impressed.

Is it a long time, madame, that you are in London?”

I only arrived the day before yesterday,” replied Mrs. Herbert in French, which, like Adrian, she spoke fluently. “I am always compelled to pass the winter in Scotland, because of my health.”

“The climate of Scotland, then, is softer than that of England. Is it so?”

“It is perhaps not softer; but it suits me better,” said Mrs. Herbert, looking hard at Aurélie, who was gazing pensively at the fireplace.

“Your health is, I hope, perfectly re-established?”

“Perfectly, thank you. Are you quite sure I have not interrupted you? I heard you playing as I came in; and I know how annoying a visit is when it interferes with serious employment.”

“I am very content to be entertained by you, madame, instead of studying solitarily.”

“You still study?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You are very fond of playing, then?

“It is my profession.”

“Since I am Adrian’s mother,” said Mrs. Herbert with some emphasis, as if she thought that fact was being overlooked, “will you allow me to ask you a question?”

Aurélie bowed.

“Do you study with a view to resuming your public career at some future time?”

“Surely. I am going to play next week at Vienna.”

Mrs Herbert bent her head in surprised assent to this intelligence. *I thought Adrian contemplated your retirement into private life,” she said. “However, let me hasten to add that I think you have shewn wisdom in overruling him. Will he accompany you abroad?”

“It is not necessary that he should. I shall travel, as usual, with my mother.”

“Your mother is quite well, I hope?”

“Quite well, thank you, madame.”

Then there was a gap in the conversation. Mrs Herbert felt that she was being treated as a distinguished stranger in her son’s home; but she was uncertain whether this was the effect of timidity, or the execution of a deliberate design on Aurelie’s part. Inclining to the former opinion, she resolved to make an advance.

“My dear,” she said, may I ask how your friends usually call you?”

“Since my marriage, my friends usually call me Madame Sczympliça”

“I could not call you that,” interposed Mrs Herbert, smiling. “I could not pronounce it.”

“It is incorrect, of course” continued Aurélie, without responding to the smile; “but it is customary for artists to retain, after marriage, the name by which they have been known. I intend to do so. My English acquaintances call me Mrs Herbert.”

“But what is your Christian name?”

Aurélie. But that is only used by my husband and my mother — and by a few others who are dear to me.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Herbert, with some impatience, “as it is quite impossible for me to address you as Mrs Herbert, I must really ask you to let me call you Aurélie.”

“Whatever is customary, madame,” said Aurélie, bending her head submissively. “You know far better than I.”

Mrs. Herbert watched her in silence after this, wondering whether she was a knave or fool — whether to attack or encourage her.

“You enjoyed your voyage in Scotland, I hope.” said Aurélie, dutifully making conversation for her guest.

“Very much indeed. But I grew a little tired of it, and shall probably remain in London now until August. When may I expect to see you at my house?”

“You are very good, madame: I am very sensible of your kindness. But — Mrs Herbert looked up quickly — I set out immediately for Vienna, whence I go to Leipzig and many other cities. I shall not be at my own disposal again for a long time.”

Mrs. Herbert reflected for a moment, and then rose. Aurélie rose also.

“Adieu,” said Mrs. Herbert suavely, offering her hand.

“Adieu, madame,” said Aurélie, saluting her with earnest courtesy. Then Mrs. Herbert withdrew. On reaching the street she hailed a hansom, and drove to her son’s studio in the Fulham Road. She found him at his easel, working more rapidly and less attentively than in the old days.

“How d’ye do, mother,” he said, “Sit down on the throne.” The throne was a chair elevated on a platform for the accommodation of live models. “We should have gone to see you; but Aurélie is going abroad. She has not a moment to spare.”

“No, Adrian, that is precisely what you should not have done, though you might have done it. It was my duty to call on your wife first; and I have accordingly just come from your house.”

“Indeed?” said Adrian eagerly, and a little anxiously. “Did you see Aurélie?”

“I saw Aurélie.”

“Well? What did you think of her?”

“I think her manners perfect, and her dress and appearance above criticism.”

“And was there — did you get on well together?”

“Your wife is a lady, Adrian, and I am a lady. Under such circumstances there is no room for unpleasantness of any kind. It is quite understood, though not expressed, that I shall not present myself at your house again, and that your wife’s engagements will prevent her from returning my visit.”

“Mother, are you serious?”

“Quite serious, Adrian. I have come here to ask you whether your wife merely carries out your wishes, or whether she prefers for herself not to cultivate acquaintances in your family.”

“Pshaw! You must have taken some imaginary offence.”

“Is that the most direct and sensible answer you can think of?”

“There is no lack of sense in the supposition that Aurélie, being a foreigner, may not understand the English etiquette for the occasion. You may have mistaken her. Even you are fallible, mother.”

“I have already told you that your wife’s manners are perfect. If you assume that my judgment is not to be relied on, there is no use in our talking to one another at all. What I wish to know is this. Admitting, for the sake of avoiding argument, that I am right in my view of the matter, did your wife behave as she did by your orders, or of her own free will?”

“Most certainly not by my orders,” said Adrian, angrily. “I am not in the habit of giving her orders. If I were, they should not be of that nature. If Aurélie treated you with politeness, I do not see what more you had any right to expect. She admired you greatly when she first saw you; but I know she was hurt by your avoidance of her after our engagement became known, even when you were in the same room with her.”

“She has not the least right to feel aggrieved on that account. It was your business to have introduced her to me as the lady you intended to marry.”

“I did not feel encouraged to do so by what had passed between us on the subject,” said Adrian, coldly.

“Well we need not go over that again. I merely wish to ask you whether you expect me to make any further concessions. You have lately acquired a habit of accusing me of various shortcomings in my duty to you; and I do not wish you to impute any estrangement between your wife and me to my neglect. I have called on her; and she did not ask me to call again. I endeavored to treat her as one of my family: she politely insisted on the most distant acquaintanceship. I asked her to call on me and she excused herself. Could I have done more?”

“I think you might, in the first instance.”

“Can I do more now?”

“You can answer that yourself better than I can.”

I fear so, since you seem unable to give me a straightforward or civil answer. However, if you have nothing to suggest, please let it be understood in future that I was perfectly willing to receive your wife, that I made the usual advances, and that they came to nothing through her action, not through mine.

“Very well, though I do not think the point will excite much interest in the world.

“Thank you, Adrian. I think T will go now. I hope you treat your wife in a more manly and considerate way than you have begun to treat me of late.”

“She does not complain, mother. And I never intended to treat you inconsiderately. But you sometimes attack me in a fashion which paralyses my constant wish to conciliate you. I am sorry you have not succeeded better with Aurélie.”

“So am I. I did not think she was long enough married to have lost the wish to please you. Perhaps, though, she thought she she would please you best by holding aloof from me.”

“You are full of unjust suspicion. The fact is just the contrary. She knows that I have a horror of estrangements in families.”

“Then she doesn’t study very hard to please you.”

Adrian reddened and was silent.

“And you? Are you still as infatuated I as you were last year?”

“Yes, “ said Adrian defiantly, with his cheeks burning. “I love her more than ever. I am longing to be at home with her at this moment. When she goes away, I shall be miserable. Of all the lies invented by people who never felt love, the lie of marriage extinguishing love is the falsest, as it is the most worldly and cynical.”

Mrs. Herbert looked at him in surprise and doubt. “You are an extraordinary boy,” she said. “Why then do you not go with her to the Continent?”

“She does not wish me to,” said Herbert shortly, averting his face, and pretending to resume his work.

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Herbert. “And you will not cross her, even in that?”

“She is quite right to wish me to stay here. I should only be wasting time; and I should be out of place at a string of concerts. I will stay behind — if I can.”

“If you can?”

“Yes, mother, if I can. But I believe I shall rejoin her before she is absent a week. I may have been an indifferent son; and I know I am a bad husband; but I am the most infatuated lover in the world.”

“Yet you say you are a bad husband!”

“Not to her. But I fall short in my duty to myself.”

Mrs. Herbert laughed. “Do not let that trouble you,” she said. “Time will cure you of that fault, if it exists anywhere but in your imagination. I never knew a man who failed in taking care of himself. Goodbye, Adrian.”

“Goodbye, mother.”

“What an ass I am to speak of my feelings to her!” he said to himself, when she was gone. “Well, well: at least if she does not understand them, she does not pretend to do so, she has not sympathy enough for that. She did not even ask to see my pictures. That would have hurt me once. At present I have exchanged the burden of disliking my mother the heavier one of loving my wife.” He sighed, and resumed his work in spite of the fading light.