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Early in the afternoon of the following day, which was Sunday, Charlie Sutherland presented himself at Church Street, Kensington and asked Mrs Simpson, who opened the door, if Mr Jack was within.

“No, sir,” said Mrs. Simpson, gravely. “He is not in just at present.”

On being pressed as to when he would be in, Mrs. Simpson became vague and evasive, although she expressed sympathy for the evident disappointment of the visitor. At last he said he would probably call again, and turned disconsolately away. He had not gone far when, hearing a shout, he looked back, and saw Jack, uncombed, unshaven, in broken slippers, and a stained and tattered coat, running after him, bareheaded.

“Come up — come back,” cried Jack, his brazen tones somewhat forced by loss of breath. “It’s all a mistake. That jade — come along.” He seized Charlie by the arm, and began to drag him back to the house as he spoke. The boys of the neighborhood soon assembled to look with awe at the capture of Charlie, only a few of the older and less reverent venturing to ridicule the scene by a derisive cheer. Jack marched his visitor upstairs to a large room, which occupied nearly the whole of the first floor. A grand pianoforte in the centre was covered with writing materials, music in print and manuscript, old newspapers, and unwashed coffee cups. The surrounding carpet was in such a state as to make it appear that periodically, when the litter became too cumbrous, it was swept away and permitted to lie on the floor just it chanced to fall. The chairs, the cushions of which seemed to have been much used as pen-wipers, were occupied, some with heaps of clothes, others with books turned inside out to mark the place at which the reader had put them down, one with a boot, the fellow of which lay in the fender, and one with a kettle, which had been recently lifted from the fire which, in spite of the season, burnt in the grate.

Black, brown and yellow stains of ink, coffee, and yolk of egg were on everything in the place.

“Sit down,” said Jack, impetuously thrusting his former pupil into the one empty chair, a comfortable one with elbows, shiny with constant use. He then sought a seat for himself, and in so doing became aware of Mrs Simpsom, who had come in during his absence with the hopeless project of making the room ready for the visitor.

“Here,” he said, “Get some more coffee, and some buttered rolls. Where have you taken all the chairs? I told you not to touch anything in this — why, what the devil do you mean by putting the kettle down on a chair?

“Not likely, Mr Jack said the landlady, “that I would do such a thing. Oh dear! and one of my yellow chairs too. It’s too bad.”

“You must have done it: there was nobody else in the room. Be off: and get the coffee.

“I did not do it,” said Mrs Simpson, raising her voice; “and well you know it. And I would be thankful to you to make up your mind whether you are to be in or out when people call, and not be making a liar of me as you did before this gentleman.”

“You are a liar ready made, and a slattern to boot,” retorted Jack. “Look at the state of this room.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Simpson, with a sniff. “Look at it indeed. I ask your pardon, sir,” she added, turning to Charlie, “but what would anybody think of me if they was told that this was my drawing room?”

Jack, his attention thus recalled to his guest, checked himself on the verge of a fresh outburst, and pointed to the door. Mrs. Simpson looked at him scornfully, but went out without further ado. Jack then seized a chair by the back, shook its contents on to the floor, and sat down near Charlie.

“I should not have spoken as I did just now,” he said, with compunction. “Let me give you a word of advice, Charles. Never live in the house with an untidy woman.”

“It must be an awful nuisance, Mr Jack.”

“It is sure to lead to bad habits in yourself. How is your sister, and your father?”

“Mary is just the same as ever; and so is the governor. I was with him at Birmingham last autumn. We heard the Prometheus. By Jove, Mr Jack, that is something to listen to! The St Matthew Passion, the Ninth Symphony, and the Nibelung’s Ring, are the only works that are fit to be put behind it. The overture alone is something screeching.”

“You like it? That’s right, that’s right. And what are you doing at present? Working hard, eh?”

“The old story, Mr Jack. I have failed in everything just as I failed at the music, though I stuck to that better than any of the rest, whilst I had you to help me.”

“You began everything too young. No matter. There is plenty of time yet. Well, well. What’s the news?”

“I’m going to an at-home at Madge Lancaster’s — the actress, you know. She made me promise I’d call on my way and mention casually where I was going. She thought that you’d perhaps come with me — at least I expect that was her game.”

“She, asked me to come some Sunday; and I told her I would. Is this Sunday?”

“Yes, Mr. Jack, I hope you won’t think it cool of me helping her to collar you in this way.”

Jack made some inarticulate reply; pulled his coat off; and began to throw about the clothes which were heaped on the chairs. Presently he rang the bell furiously, and, after waiting for about twenty seconds for a response, went to the door and shouted for Mrs Simpson in a stunning voice. This had no more effect than the bell; and he returned, muttering execrations, to resume his search. When he had added considerably to the disorder, Mrs Simpson entered with ostentatious unconcern, carrying a tray with coffee and rolls.

“Where would you wish me to put these things, sir?” she said with a patient air, after looking in vain for a vacant space on the pianoforte.

“What things? What do you mean by bringing them? Who asked for them?

“You did, Mr Jack. Perhaps a you would like to deny it to this gentleman’s face, who heard you give the order.”

“Oh!” said Jack, discomfited. “Charles: will you take some coffee whilst I am dressing. Put the tray on the floor if you can’t find room for it elsewhere.”

Mrs Simpson immediately placed it at Charlie’s feet.

“Now,” said Jack, looking malignantly at her, “be so good as to find my coat for me; and in future, when I leave it in a particular place, don’t take it away from there.”

“Yes, sir. And where did you leave it last, if I may make bold to ask?”

“I left it on that chair,” said Jack violently. “Do you see? On that chair.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Simpson, with open scorn. “You gave it out to me yesterday to brush; and a nice job I have had with it: it took a whole bottle of benzine to fetch out the stains. It’s upstairs in your room; and I beg you will be more careful with it in future, or else send it to the dyers to be cleaned instead of to me. Shall I bring it to you?”

“No. Go to the — go to the kitchen; and hold your tongue. Charlie: I shall be back presently, my boy, if you will wait. And take some coffee. Put the tray anywhere. Confound that — that — that — that woman.” He left the room then, and after some time reappeared in a clean shirt and a comparatively respectable black frock coat.

“Where does she live?” he said.

“In the Marylebone Road. Her athomes are great fun. Her sisters don’t consider it proper for a young unmarried woman to give athomes on her own hook; and so they never go. I believe they would cut her altogether, only they can’t afford to, because she gives them a new dress occasionally. It will be a regular swagger for me to go in with you. Next to being a celebrity oneself, the best thing is to know a celebrity.”

Jack only grunted, and allowed Charlie to talk until they arrived at the house in the Marylebone Road. The door was opened by a girl in a neat dress of dark green, with a miniature mob-cap on her head.

“I feel half inclined to ask her for a programme, and tip her sixpence,” whispered Charlie, as they followed her upstairs. “We may consider that she is conducting us to our stalls. Mr Jack and Mr Charles Sutherland,” he added aloud to the girl as they reached the landing.

Mr Sutherland and Mr Charles Sutherland,” she answered, coldly correcting him.

Jack, meanwhile had advanced to where Madge stood. She wore a dress of pale blue velvet, made in Venetian style imitated from old Paul Veronese. Round her neck was a threefold string of amber beads, and she was shod with slippers of the same hue and material as her dress. Her complexion, skilfully put on, did not disgust Charlie, but rather inspired him with a gentle regret that it was too good to be genuine. The arrangement of the room was as remarkable as the costume of the hostess. The folding doors had been removed, and the partition built into an arch with a white pillar at each side. A curtain of silvery plush was gathered to one of side of this arch. The walls were painted a delicate sheeny grey, and the carpet resembled a piece of thick whitey-brown paper. The chairs of unvarnished wood, had rush seats, or else cushions of dull straw color or cinnamon. In compliance with a freak of fashion which prevailed just then, there were no less than eight lamps distributed about the apartments. These lamps had monstrous stems of pottery ware, gnarled and uncouth in design. Most of them represented masses of rock with strings of ivy leaves clinging to them. The ceiling was of a light maize color.

Magdalen, surprised by the announcement of Mr Sutherland, was looking towards the door for him over the head of Jack, than whom she was nearly a head taller.

“How d’ye do?” he said, startling her with his brassy voice.

“My dear master,” she exclaimed, in the pure, distinct tone to which she owed much of her success on the stage. “So you have come to me at last.”

“Aye, I have come at last,” he said, with a suspicious look. “I forgot all about you; but I was put in mind of your invitation by Charles. where’s Charles?”

Charles was behind him, waiting to be received.

“I am deeply grateful to you,” said Magdalen, pressing his hand. Charles, rather embarrassed than gratified, replied inarticulately; vouched for the health of his family; and retreated into the crowd.

“I had ceased to hope that we should ever meet again,” she said, turning again to Jack. “I have sent you box after box that you might see your old pupil in her best parts; but when the nights came, the boxes were empty always.”

“I intended to go — I should have gone. But somehow I forgot the time, or lost the tickets, or something. My landlady mislays things of that sort; or very likely she burns them.”

“Poor Mrs Simpson! How is she?”

“Alive, and mischievous, and long tongued as ever. I must leave that place. I can stand her no longer. Her slovenliness, her stupidity, and her disregard of truth are beyond belief.”

“Dear, dear! I am very sorry to hear that, Mr. Jack.” Magdalen turned her eyes upon him with an expression of earnest sympathy which had cost her much study to perfect. Jack, who seldom recollected that the subject of Mrs Simpson’s failings was not so serious to the rest of the world as to himself, thought Magdalen’s concern by no means overstrained, and was about to enlarge on his domestic discomfort, when the servant announced “Mr Brailsford.”

Jack slipped away, and his old enemy advanced, as sprucely dressed as ever, but a little more uncertain in his movements. Magdalen kissed him with graceful respect, as she would have kissed an actor engaged to impersonate her father for so many pounds a week. When he passed on and mingled with the crowd like any other visitor, she forgot him, and looked round for Jack. But he, in spite of his attempt to avoid Mr Brailsford, had just come face to face with him in a remote corner whither chance had led them both. Jack at once asked him how he did.

“How de do,” said the old gentleman with nervous haste. “Glad to — I am sure.” Here he found his eyeglass, and was able to distinguish Jack’s features.

“Sir,” said Jack: “I am an ill-mannered man on occasion; but perhaps you will overlook that and allow me to claim your acquaintance.”

“Sir,” replied Brailsford, tremulously clasping his proffered hand: “I have always honored and admired men of genius, and protested against the infamous oppression to which the world subjects them. You may count upon me always.”

“There was a time,” said Jack, with a glance at the maize-colored ceiling, “when neither of us would have believed that we should come to make two in a crowd of fashionable celebrities sitting round her footstool.”

“She has made a proud position for herself, certainly. Thanks, as she always acknowledges, above all things to your guidance.”

“Humph,” said Jack doubtfully. “I taught her to make the best of such vowels as there are left in our spoken language; but her furniture and her receptions are her own idea.”

“They are the most ridiculous absurdities in London,” whispered Brailsford with sudden warmth. “To you, sir, I express my opinion without reserve. I come here because my presence may give a certain tone — a sanction — you understand me?” Jack nodded. “But I do not approve of such entertainments. I am at a loss to comprehend how the actress can so far forget the lady. This room is not respectable, Mr Jack: it is an outrage on taste and sensibility. However, it is not my choice: it is hers; and de gustibus non est disputandum. You will excuse my quoting my old school books. I never did so, sir, in my youth, when every fool’s mouth was full of scraps of Latin.”

“There is a bad side to this sort of thing,” said Jack. “These fellows waste their time coming here; and she wastes her money on extravagances for them to talk about. But after all, there is a bad side to everything: she might indulge herself with worse follies. Now that she is her own mistress, we must all stand further off. Her affairs are not our business.”

The old gentleman nodded several times in a melancholy manner. “There you have hit the truth, sir,” he said in a low voice. “We must all stand further off — I as well as others. A very just observation.”

This dialogue, exceptionally long for a crowded afternoon reception in London, was interrupted by Magdalen coming to invite Jack to play, which he peremptorily refused to do, remarking that if the company were in a humor to listen to music, they had better go to church. The rebuff caused much disappointment; for Jack’s appearances in society, common as they had been during the season which preceded the first performance of Promethius, had since been very rare. Stories of his eccentricity and inaccessible solitude had passed from mouth to mouth until they became too stale to amuse or too exaggerated to be believed. His refusal to play was considered so characteristic that some of the guests withdrew at once in order that they might be the first to narrate the circumstances in artistic circles, which are more “at home” on Sundays than those of the more purely fashionable ones which have nothing particular to do on week days. Jack was about to go himself when the blue velvet sleeve touched his arm, and Magdalen whispered:

“They will all go in a very few minutes now. Will you stay and let me have a moment with you alone? It is so long since I have had a word of advice from you.”

Jack again looked suspiciously at her; but as she looked very pretty, he relented, saying good humoredly, “Get rid of them quickly, then. I have no time to waste waiting for them.”

She set herself to get rid of them as well as she could, by pretending to mistake the purpose of men who came up to converse with her, and surprising them with effusive farewells. To certain guests with whom she did not stand on ceremony she confided her desire to clear the room; and they immediately conveyed her wishes to their intimate friends, besides setting an example to others by taking leave ostentatiously, or declaring in loud whispers that it was shamefully late; that dear Madge must be tired to death; and that they were full of remorse at having been induced by her delightful hospitality to stay so long. In fifteen minutes the company was reduced to five or six persons, who seemed to think, now that the crowd was over, that the time had come for enjoying themselves. A few of them, who knew each other, relaxed their ceremonious bearing; raised their voices; and entered into a discussion on theatrical topics in which they evidently expected Magdalen to join. The rest wandered about the rooms, and made the most of their opportunity of having a good look at the great actress and the great composer, who was standing at a window with his hands clasped behind him, frowning unapproachably. Mr Brailsford also remained; and he was the first to notice the air of exhaustion with which his daughter was mutely appealing to her superfluous guests.

“My child,” he said: “are you fatigued?”

“I am worn out,” she replied, in a whisper which reached the furthest corner of the room. “How I long to be alone!”

“Why did you not tell me so before,” said Brailsford, offended. “I shall not trouble you any longer, Magdalen. Good evening.”

“Hush,” she said, laying her arm caressingly on his, and speaking this time in a real whisper. “I meant that for the others. I want you to do something for me. Mr Jack is waiting to go with you; and I particularly want to speak to him alone — about a pupil. Could you slip away without his seeing you? Do, dear old daddy; for I may never have another chance of catching him in a good humor. Magdalen knew that her father would be jealous of having to leave before Jack unless she could contrive to make him do so of his own accord. The stratagem succeeded and Mr Brailsford left the room with precaution, glancing apprehensively at the musician, who still presented a stolid back view to the company. The group of talkers, warned by Madge’s penetrating whisper, submissively followed him, leaving only one young man who was anxious to go and did not know how to do it. She relieved him by giving him her hand, and expressing a hope that she should see him next Sunday, He promised earnestly, and departed.

“Now,” said Jack, wheeling round the instant the door closed. “What can I do for you? Your few minutes have spun themselves out to twenty.”

“Did they seem so very long?” she said, seating herself upon an ottoman and throwing her dress into graceful folds.

“Yes,” said Jack, bluntly.

“So they did to me. Won’t you sit down?”

Jack pushed an oaken stool opposite to her with his foot, and sat upon it, much as, in a Scandinavian story, a dwarf might have sat at the feet of a princess. “Well, mistress,” he said. “Things have changed since I taught you. Eh?”

“Some things have.”

“You have become great; and so — in my small way — have I.”

“I have become what you call great,” she said. But you have not changed. People have found out your greatness, that is all.”

“Well said,” said Jack, approvingly. “They starved me long enough first, damn them. Used I to swear at you when I was teaching you?”

“I think you used to. Just a little, when I was very dull.”

“It is a bad habit — a stupid one, as all low habits are. I rarely fall into it. And so you stuck to your work, and fought your way. That was right. Are you as fond of the stage as ever?”

“It is my profession,” said Madge, with a disparaging shrug. “One’s profession is only half of one’s life. Acting in London, where the same play runs for a whole season, leaves one time to think of other things. ‘‘

“Sundays at home, and fine furniture, for instance.”

“Things that they vainly pretend to supply. I have told you that my profession is only half my life — the public half. Now that I have established that firmly, I begin to find that the private and personal half, the half which is concerned with home and — and domestic ties, must be well established too, or else the life remains incomplete, and the heart unsatisfied.”

“In plain English, you have too much leisure which you can employ no better than in grumbling.”

“Perhaps so; but am I much at fault? When I entered upon my profession, its difficulties so filled my mind with hopes and fears, and its actual work so fully occupied my time, that I forgot every other consideration and cut myself off from my family and friends with as little hesitation as a child might feel in exchanging an estate for a plaything. Now that the difficulties are overcome, the hopes fulfilled (or abandoned) and the fears dispelled — now that I find that my profession does not suffice to fill my life, and that I have not only time, but desire, for other interests, I find how thoughtless I was when I ran away from all the affection I had unwittingly gathered to myself as I grew.”

“Why? What have you lost? You have your family still.”

“I am as completely estranged from them by my profession as if it had transported me to another world.”

“I doubt if they are any great loss to you. The public are fond of you, ain’t they?”

“They pay me to please them. If I disappeared, they would forget me in a week.”

“Why shouldn’t they? How long do you think they should wear mourning for you? Have you made no friends in your own way of life?”

“Friends? Yes, I suppose so.”

“You suppose so! What is the matter, then? What more do you want?”

Magdalen raised her eyelids for an instant, and looked at him. Then she said, “Nothing,” and let the lids fall with the cadence of her voice.

“Listen to me,” said Jack, after a pause, drawing his seat nearer to her, and watching her keenly. “You want to be romantic. You won’t succeed. Look at the way we cling to the stage, to music, and poetry, and so forth. Why do you think we do that? Just because we long to be romantic, and when we try it in real life, facts and duties baffle us at every turn. Men who write plays for you to act, cook up the facts and duties so as to heighten the romance; and so we all say ‘How wonderfully true to nature!’ and feel that the theatre is the happiest sphere for us all. Heroes and heroines are to be depended on: there is no more chance of their acting prosaically than there is of a picture in the Royal Academy having stains on its linen, or blacks in its sky. But in real life it is just the other way. The incompatibility is not in the world, but in ourselves. Your father is a romantic man; and so am I; but how much of our romance have we ever been able to put into practice?”

“More than you recollect, perhaps,” said Madge, unmoved (for constant preoccupation with her own person had made her a bad listener), “but more than I shall ever forget. There has been one piece of romance in my life — a very practical piece. A perfect stranger once gave me, at my mere request, all the money he had in the world.”

“Perhaps he fell in love with you at first sight. Or perhaps — which is much the same thing — he was a fool.”

“Perhaps so. It occurred at Paddington Station some years ago.”

“Oh! Is that what you are thinking of? Well, that is a good illustration of what I am saying. Did any romance come out of that? In three weeks, time you were grubbing away at elocution with me at so much a lesson.”

“I know that no romance came out of it — for you.”

“So you think,” said Jack complacently; “but romance comes out of everything for me. Where do you suppose I get the supplies for my music? And what passion there is in that! — what fire — what disregard of conventionality! In the music, you understand: not in my everyday life.”

“Your art, then, is enough for you,” said Madge, in a touching tone.

“I like to hear you speak,” observed Jack: “you do it very well. Yes: my art is enough for me, more than I have time and energy for occasionally. However, I will tell you a little romance about myself which may do you some good. Eh? Have you the patience to listen?”

“Patience!”echoed Madge, in a low steady voice. “Try whether you can tire me.”

“Very well: you shall hear. You must know that when, after a good many years of poverty and neglect, I found myself a known man, earning over a hundred a year, I felt for a while as if my house was built and I had no more to do than to put it in repair from time to time — much as you think you have mastered the art of acting, and need only learn a new part occasionally to keep your place on the stage. And so it came about that I — Owen Jack — began to languish in my solitude; to pine for a partner; and, in short, to suffer from all those symptoms which you so admirably described just now.” He gave this account of himself with a derision so uncouth that Madge lost for the moment her studied calm, and shrank back a little. “I was quite proud to think that I had the affections of a man as well as the inspiration of a musician; and I selected the lady; fell in love as hard as I could; and made my proposals in due form. I was luckier than I deserved to be. Her admiration of me was strictly impersonal; and she nearly had a fit at the idea of marrying me. She is now the wife of a city speculator; and I have gone back to my old profession of musical student, and quite renounced the dignity of past master of the art. I sometimes shudder when I think that I was once within an ace of getting a wife and family.”

“And so your heart is dead?”

“No: it is marriage that kills the heart and keeps it dead. Better starve the heart than overfeed it. Better still to feed it only on fine food, like music. Besides, I sometimes think I will marry Mrs Simpson when I grow a little older.”

“You are jesting: you have been jesting all along. It is not possible that a woman refused your love.”

“It is quite possible, and has happened. And,” here he rose and prepared to go, “I should do the same good service to a woman, if one were so foolish as to persuade herself on the same grounds that she loved me.”

“You would not believe that she could love you on any deeper and truer grounds?” said Madge, rising slowly without taking her eyes off his face.

“Stuff! Wake up, Miss Madge; and realize what nonsense you are talking. Rub your eyes and look at me, a Kobold — a Cyclop, as that fine woman Mrs Herbert once described inc. What sane person under forty would be likely to fall in love with me? And what do I care about women over forty, except perhaps Mrs. Herbert — or Mrs. Simpson I like them young and beautiful, like you.”

Madge, as if unconsciously, raised her hand, half offering it to him. He took it promptly, and continued humorously, “And I love you, and have always done so. Who could know such a lovely woman and fine genius as you without loving her? But,” he added, shaking her fingers warningly, “you must not love me. My time for playing Romeo was over before you ever saw me; and Juliet must not fall in love with Friar Lawrence, even when he is a great composer.”

“Not if he forbids her — and she can help it,” said Madge with solemn sadness, letting her hand drop as he released it.

“Not on any account,” said Jack. “Come, he added, turning to her imperiously: “we are not a pair, you and I. I know how to respect myself: do you learn to know yourself. We two are artists, as you are aware. Well, there is an art that is inspired by nothing but a passion for shamming; and that is yours, so far. There is an art which is inspired by a passion for beauty, but only in men who can never associate beauty with a lie. That is my art. Master that and you will be able to make true love. At present you only know how to make scenes, which is too common an accomplishment to interest me. You see you have not quite finished you lessons yet. Goodbye.”

“Adieu,” said Madge, like a statue.

He walked out in the most prosaic manner possible; and she sank on the ottoman in an attitude of despair, and — finding herself at her ease in it, and not understanding him in the least — kept it up long after he, by closing the door, had, as it were, let fall the curtain. For it was her habit to attitudinize herself when alone quite as often as to other people, in whose minds the pleasure of attitudinizing is unalloyed by association with the labor of breadwinning.

Jack, meanwhile, had let himself out of the house. It had become dusk by this time; and he walked away in a sombre mood, from which he presently roused himself to shake his head at the house he had just left, and to say aloud, “You are a bold-faced jade.” This remark, which was followed by muttered imprecations, was ill-received by a passing woman who, applying it to herself, only waited until he was at a safe distance before retorting with copious and shrill abuse, which soon caused many persons to stop and stare after him. But he, hardly conscious of the tumult, and not suspecting that it had anything to do with him, walked on without raising his head, and was presently lost to them in the deepening darkness.

All this time, Charlie, who had been among the first to leave Madge’s rooms, was wandering about Kensington in the neighborhood of Herbert’s lodging. He felt restless and unsatisfied, shrinking from the observation of the passers-by, with a notion that they might suspect and ridicule the motive of his lurking, there. He turned into Campden Hill at last, and went to his sister’s. Mary usually had visitors on Sunday evenings; and some of them might help him to pass away the evening pleasantly in spite of Hoskyn’s prose. Perhaps even — but here he shook off further speculation, and knocked at the door.

“Anyone upstairs?” he asked carelessly of the maid, as he hung up his hat.

“Only one lady, sir. Mrs Herbert.”

Something within him s make a spring at the name. He glanced at himself in the mirror before going into the drawing room, where, to his extreme disappointment, he found Mary conversing, not with Herbert’s wife, but with his mother. She had but just arrived, and was explaining to Mary that she had returned the day before, from a prolonged absence in Scotland. Charlie never enjoyed his encounters with Mrs Herbert; for she had known him as a boy, and had not yet got out the of habit of treating him as one. So, hearing that Hoskyn was in another room, smoking, he pleaded a desire for a cigar, and went off to join him, leaving the two ladies together.

“You were saying — ?” said Mary, resuming the conversation which his entrance had Interrupted.

“I was saying,” said Mrs Herbert, “that I have never been able to sympathize with the interest which you take in Adrian’s life and opinions. Geraldine tells me that I have no maternal instinct; but then Geraldine has no sons, and does not quite know what she is talking about. I look on Adrian as a failure, and I really cannot take an interest in a man who is a failure. His being my son only makes the fact disappointing to me personally. I retain a kind of nursery affection for my boy; but of what use that to him, since he has given up his practice of stabbing me through it? I would go to him if he were ill; and help him if he were in trouble; but as to maintaining a constant concern on his account, really I do not see why I should. You, with your own little dear one a fresh possession — almost a part of yourself still, doubtless think me very heartless; but you will learn that children have their separate lives and interests as completely independent of their parents as the remotest strangers. I do not think Adrian would even like me, were it not for his sense of duty. You will understand some day that the common notion of parental and filial relations are more unpractical than even those of love and marriage.

Mary, who ^had already made some discoveries in this direction, did not protest as “ she would have done in her maiden time. “What surprises me chiefly is that Mrs Herbert should have been rude to you,” she said. “I doubt whether she is particularly fond of me: indeed, I am sure she is not; but nothing could be more exquisitely polite and kind than her manner to me, especially in her own house.”

“I grant you the perfection of her manners, dear. She was not rude to me. Not that they are exactly the manners of good society; but they are perfect of their kind, for all that. Hush! I think — did I not hear Adrian’s voice that time?”

Adrian was, in fact, speaking in the hall to Hoskyn, who had just appeared there with Charlie on his way to the drawing room. Aurélie was with her husband. They all went for a moment into the study, which served on Sunday evenings as a cloak room.

“I assure you, Mrs. Herbert,” said Hoskyn, officiously helping Aurélie to take off her mantle, “I am exceedingly glad to see you.”

“Ah, yes,” said Aurélie; “but this is quite wrong. It is you who should render me a visit in this moment, because I ask you to dine with me; and you do not come.”

“You have turned up at a very good time,’ said Charlie mischievously. “Mrs. Herbert is upstairs.”

“My mother!” said Adrian, in consternation.

“Shall we go upstairs?” said Hoskyn, leading the way with resolute cheerfulness.

Ädrian looked at Aurélie. She had dropped the lively manner in which she had spoken to Hoskyn, and was now moving towards the door with ominous grace and calm.

“Aurélie,” he said, detaining her in the room for a moment: “my mother is here. You will speak to her — for my sake — will you not?”

She only raised her hand to signify that she was not to be troubled, and then, without heeding his look of pain and disappointment, passed out and followed Hoskyn to the drawingroom, where Mary and Mrs Herbert, having heard her foreign voice, were waiting, scarcely less disturbed than Adrian by their fear of how she might act.

“Mrs Herbert junior has actually condescended to pay you a visit, Mary,” said Hoskyn.

“How do you do?” said Mary, with misgiving. “I am so very glad to see you.”

“So often have I to reproach myself not to have called on my friends,” said Aurélie in her sweetest voice, “that I yielded to Adrian at the risk of deranging you by coming on the Sunday evening.” A pause followed, during which she looked inquisitively around. “Ah!” she exclaimed, with an air of surprise and pleasure, as she recognized Mrs. Herbert, “is it possible? You are again in London, madame.”

She advanced and offered her hand. Mrs Herbert, who had sat calmly looking at her, made the greeting as brief as possible, and turned her attention to Adrian. Nevertheless, Aurélie drew a chair close to hers, and sat down there.

“You are looking very well, mother,” said Adrian. “When did you return?”

“Only yesterday, Adrian.” There was a brief silence. Adrian looked anxiously at Aurélie; and his mother mutely declined to look at her.

“But behold what is absurd!” said Aurélie. “You, madame, who are encore so young — so beautiful — here Mrs. Herbert, who had turned to her with patient attention, could not hide an expression of wonder&mdash”you are already a grandmother. Adrian has what you call a son and heir. It is true.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” said Mrs. Herbert coolly.

A slight change appeared for an instant in Aurélie’s face; and she glanced for a moment gravely at her husband. He, with disgust only half concealed,said, “You could not broach a subject less interesting to my mother,” and turned away to speak to Mary.

“Adrian,” began Mrs. Herbert, who found herself unexpectedly disturbed by the implied imputation of want of feeling: “I do not think—” Then, as he was not attending to her, she turned to Aurélie and said, “You really must not accept everything that Adrian says seriously. Pray tell me all about your boy — my grandson, I should say.”

“He is like you,” said Aurélie, trying to conceal the chill which had fallen upon her. “Perhaps you will like to see him. If so, I shall bring him to you, if you will permit me.”

“I shall be very glad,” said Mrs. Herbert, rather surprised. “Let me say that I have been expecting you to call on me for some time.”

“You are very good,” said Aurélie. “But think of how I live. I am always voyaging; and you also are seldom in London. Besides, when one is an artist one neglects things. Forget, I pray you, my — my — ach! I do not know how to say it. But I will come to you with Monsieur Jean Sczympliça Herbert. That reminds me: I know not your address.

Mrs Herbert supplied the information; and the conversation then proceeded amicably with occasional help from Hoskyn and Charlie. Mary and Adrian had withdrawn to another part of the room, and were engrossed in a discussion. In the course of it Mary remarked that matters were evidently smooth between the two Mrs Herberts.

“I am glad of it,” said Adrian, not looking glad. “I was disposed to think Aurélie in fault on that point; but I see plainly enough now how the coolness was brought about. I should not have blamed Aurélie at all if she had repaid my mother’s insolence — I do not think that at all too strong a word — in kind. Poor Aurélie! I have been all this time secretly thinking hardly of her for having, I thought, rebuffed my mother. Unjust and stupid that I am not to have known better from my lifelong experience of the one, and my daily observation of the other! Aurélie has conciliated her tonight solely because I begged her to do so as we came upstairs. You cannot deny that my wife can be perfectly kind and selfsacrificing whenever there is occasion for it.”

“I cannot deny it! Adrian: you speak as though I were in the habit of disparaging her. You are quite wrong. No one can admire her more than I. My only fear is that she is too sweet, and may spoil you. How could I resist her? Even your mother, prejudiced as she certainly was against her, has yielded. You can see by her face that she has given up the battle. I think we had better join them. We have a very rude habit of getting into a corner by ourselves. I am sure, in spite of all you say, that Mrs Herbert is too fond of you to like it.”

“Mrs Herbert is a strange being,” said Adrian, rising. “I no longer pretend to understand her likes and dislikes.”

Mary made a mental note that Aurélie had probably had more to say on the subject of what she saw in the studio than Adrian had expected. The general conversation which ensued did not run on personal matters. Aurélie was allowed to lead it, as it was tacitly understood that the interest of the occasion in some manner centred in her. Mrs Herbert laughingly asked her for the secret of managing Adrian; but she adroitly passed on to some other question, and would not discuss him or in any way treat him more familiarly than she did Hoskyn or Charlie.

Later on, Hoskyn proposed that they should go downstairs to a room which communicated with the garden by a large window and a small grassy terrace. As the night was sultry, they readily agreed, and were soon seated below at a light supper, after which Hoskyn strolled out into the garden with Adrian to smoke another cigar and to shew a recently purchased hose and lawn mower, it being his habit to require his visitors to interest themselves in his latest acquisitions, whether of children, furniture or gardening implements. Mrs Herbert, who, despite the glory of the moon, could not overcome her belief that fresh air, to be safely sat in, should tempered by a roof, did not venture beyond the carpet; and and Mary felt bound to remain in the room with her. Aurélie walked out to the edge of the terrace, clasped her hands behind her, and became rapt in contemplation of the cloudless sky, which was like a vast moonlit plain. Her attention was recalled by the voice of Charlie beside her.

“Awfully jolly night, isn’t it, Mrs Herbert?”

“Yes, it is very fine.”

“I suppose you find no end of poetry in all those stars.”

“Poetry! I am not at all poetic, Monsieur Charles.”

“I don’t altogether believe that, you know. You look poetic.”

“It is therefore that people mistake me. They are very arbitrary. They say ‘Madamoiselle Sczympliça has such and such a face and figure. In our minds such a face and figure associate with poetry. Therefore must she be poetic. We will have it so; and if she disappoints us, we will be very angry with her.’ And I do disappoint them. When they talk poetically of music and things I am impatient myself to be at home with mamman, who never talks of such things, and the bambino, who never talks at all. What, think you, do I find in those stars? I am looking for Aurélie and Thekla in what you call Charles’s wain. Aha! I did not think of that before. You are Monsieur Charles, to whom belongs the wain.”

“Yes, I have put my hand to the plough and turned back often enough. What may Aurélie and Thekla be?”

“Aurélie is myself; and Thekla is my doll. In my infancy I named a star after every one whom I liked. Only very particular persons were given a place in Charles’s wain. It was the great chariot of honor; and in the end I found no one worthy of it but my doll and myself. Behold how I am poetic! I was a silly child; for I forgot to give my mother a star — I forgot all my family. When my mother found that out one day, she said I had no heart. And, indeed, I fear I have none.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Look you, Monsieur Charles,” she said, with a sudden air of shrewdness, unclasping her hands to shake her finger at him: “I am not what you think me to be. I am the very other things of it. I have the soul commercial within me.”

“I am glad of that,” he said eagerly; “for I want to make a business proposal to you. Will you give me lessons?”

‘Give you lesson! Lesson of what?”

“Lessons in playing. I want awfully to become a good pianist, and I have never had any really good teaching since I was a boy.”

“Vraiment? Ah! You think that as you persevered so well in the different professions, you will find it easy to become a player. Is it not so?”

“Not at all. I know that playing requires years of perseverance. But I think I can persevere if you will teach me.”

“Monsieur Charles — what shall I call you? You are an ingenious infant, I think.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Mrs. Herbert. I’m perfectly in earnest.” Here, to his confusion, his voice broke with emotion.

“You think I am mocking you!” she said, not seeming to notice the accident.

“I am not fool enough to suppose that you care what I think.” he said lamely, losing his self-possession. “I know you won’t give me the lessons. I knew it before.”

“And wherefore then, did you ask me?”

“Because I love you,” he replied, with symptoms of hysterical distress. “I love you.”

“Ah,” said Aurélie severely, “Do you see my husband there looking at you? And do you not know that it is very wicked to say such a thing to me? Remember, Monsieur Charles, you are quite sober now. I shall not excuse you as I did before.”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Charlie, half crestfallen, half desperate, “I know it’s hopeless: I felt it the moment I had said it. But I can’t always act like a man of the world. I wish I had never met you.”

“And why?”’ I Like you very well when you are good. But this is already twice that you forget to be an honest gentleman. Is it not dishonorable thus to envy your friend? If Monsieur Herbert had a fine watch, would you wish to possess it? No, the thought that it was his would impeach — would hinder you to form such a wish. Well, you must look upon me as a watch of his. You must not even think such things as you have just said. I will not be angry with you, Monsieur Sutherland, because you are very young, and you have admirable qualities. But you have done wrong.”

Before he could reply, she moved away and joined her husband at the end of the garden. Charlie, with his mouth hanging open, stared at her for some seconds, and then went into the supper room, where he incommoded Mary and Mrs. Herbert by lounging about, occasionally taking a grape [from the table or pouring out a glass of wine. At last he strolled to the drawingroom, where he was found with a book in his hand, pretending to read, by the others when they came upstairs some time after. He did not speak again until he bade farewell to the elder Mrs. Herbert, who departed under Hoskyn’s escort. Aurélie, before following her example, went to the nursery with Mary, to have a peep at Master Richard Hoskyn, as he lay in his cot.

“He smiles,” said Aurélie. “What a charming infant! The bambino never smiles. He is so triste, like Adrian!” As they turned to leave the room, she added, “Poor Adrian! I think of going to America this year; but he does not know. You will take care of him whilst I am away, will you not?”

Mary, seeing that she was serious, was puzzled how to reply. “As far as I can, I will, certainly,” she said after some hesitation. Then, laughing, she continued, “It is rather an odd commission.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Aurélie, still serious. “He has great esteem for you, madame — greater than for no matter what person in the world.”

Mary opened her lips to say, “Except you”; but somehow she did not dare, Instead, she remarked that perhaps Adrian would accompany his wife to America. The trip, she suggested, would do him good.

“No, no,” said Aurélie, quickly. “He does not breathe freely in the artists’ room at a concert. He is out of place there. My mother will come with me. Do not speak of it to him yet: I know not whether they will guarantee me a sufficient sum. But even should I not go, I shall still be much away. As I have told you, I leave England for six weeks on the first of next month. You will not suffer Adrian to mope; and you will speak to him of his pictures, about which I am so épouvantably stupid.”

“I will do my best,” said Mary, privately thinking that Aurélie was truly an unaccountable person.

Whilst she was speaking, they reentered the drawing room.

“Now, Adrian. I am ready.”

“Yes,” said Herbert “Good night, Mary.”

“I think I heard you say that Mrs Herbert is going off on a long tour,” said Charlie, coming forward, and speaking boldly, although his face was very red.

“Yes,” said Adrian. “Not a very long tour though, thank goodness.”

Then I shall not see her againmdash;at least not for some time. I have made up my mind to take that post in the Conolly Company’s branch at Leeds; and I shall be off before Mrs Herbert returns from the continent”

“This is a sudden resolution,” said Mary, in some astonishment.

“I hope Mrs. Herbert thinks it a wise one,” said Charlie. “She has often made fun of my attempts at settling myself in the world.”

“Yes,” said Aurélie, “it is very wise, and quite right. Your instinct tells you so. Goodnight and bon voyage, Monsieur Charles.”

“My instinct tells me that it is very foolish and quite wrong,” he said, taking her proffered hand timidly; “but I see nothing else for it under the circumstances. I don’t look forward to enjoying myself. Goodbye.” Mary then went downstairs with her guests; but he turned back into the room, and watched their departure from the window.

THE END