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During the remaining weeks of the season, Mary witnessed a series of entertainments of a kind quite new to her. Since her childhood she had never visited the Crystal Palace except for the Saturday afternoon classical concerts. Now she spent a whole day there with Mr Hoskyn, his sister, and the children, and waited for the display of fireworks. She saw acrobats, conjurers, Christy Minstrels, panoramas, and shows of cats, goats, and dairy implements; and she felt half ashamed of herself for enjoying them. She went for the first time in her life to a circus, to a music hall, and to athletic sports at Lillie Bridge. After the athletic sports, she went up the river in a cheap excursion steamer to Hampton Court, where she hardly looked at the pictures, and occupied herself solely with the other objects of interest, which she had neglected on previous visits. Finally she went to Madame Tussaud’s.

Hoskyn had proposed all these amusements on behalf of the children; and it was supposed that Mary and Mrs Phipson, on going to them, were goodnaturedly co-operating with Uncle Johnny to make the little Phipsons happy. In the character of Uncle Johnny, Hoskyn frequented the house in Cavendish Square at all hours, and was soon on familiar terms with Mary. He was goodhumored, and apparently quite satisfied with himself. In arranging excursions, procuring and paying for vehicles, spying out and pushing his way to seats left accidentally vacant in the midst of packed audiences, looking after the children, and getting as much value as possible for his money on every occasion, he was never embarrassed or inefficient. He was very inquisitive, and took every opportunity of entering into conversation with railway officials, steamboat captains, cab-men, and policemen, and learning from them all about their various occupations. When this habit of his caused him to neglect Mary for a while, he never pestered her with apologies, and always told her what he had learnt without any doubt that it would interest her. And it did interest her more than she would have believed beforehand, although sometimes its interest arose from the obvious mendacity of Hoskyn’s informants: he being as credulous of particulars extracted bu casual pumping as he was sceptical of any duly authorized and published statement. In his company Mary felt neither the anxiety to appear at her best with which Herbert’s delicate taste and nervous solicitude for her dignity had always inspired her, nor the circumspection which she had found necessary to avoid offending the exacting temper of Jack. In their different ways, both men had humbled her. Hoskyn admired her person, and held her acquirements to awe, without being himself in the least humbled, although he exalted her without stint. She began to feel too, that she, by her apprenticeship to the two artists, had earned the right to claim rank as an adept in modern culture before such men as Hoskyn. When they went to the Academy, he was quite delighted to find that she despised all the pictures he preferred. In about an hour, however, both had had enough of picture seeing and they finished the day by the trip to Hampton Court.

When the season was over, it was arranged that Mr Phipson should take his family to Trouville for the month of August. Hoskyn, who was to accompany them, never doubted that Mary would be one of the party until she announced the date of her departure for Sir John Porter’s country seat in Devonshire. She had accepted Lady Geraldine’s invitation a month before. Hoskyn listened in dismay, and instead of proposing some excursion to pass away the time, moped about the house during the remainder of the afternoon. Shortly after luncheon he was alone in the drawing room, staring disconsolately out of window, when Mary entered. She sat down without ceremony, and opened a book.

“Look here,” he said presently. “This is a regular sell about Trouville.”

“How so? Has anything happened?”

“I mean your not coming.”

“But nobody ever supposed that I was coming. It was arranged long ago that I should go to Devonshire.”

“I never heard a word about Devonshire until you mentioned it at lunch. Couldn’t you make some excuse — tell Lady Porter that you have been ordered abroad for your health, or that Nanny will be offended if you don’t go with her, or something of that sort?”

“But why? I want to go to Devonshire and I don’t want to go to Trouville.”

“Oh! In that case I suppose you will leave us.”

“Certainly. I hope you are not going to make a grievance of my desertion.”

“Oh no. But it knocks all the fun of the thing on the head.”

“What a pity!”

“I am quite in earnest, you know.”

“Nobody could doubt it, looking at your face. Can nothing be done to console you?”

“Poking fun at me is not the way to console me. Why do you want to go to Devonshire. It’s about the worst climate in England for anyone with a weak chest: muggy, damp and tepid.”

“I have not a weak chest, I am glad to say. Have you ever been in Devonshire?”

“No. But I have heard about it from people who lived there for years and had to leave it at last.”

“I am going for a month only.”

Hoskyn began to twirl the cord of the blind round his forefinger. When he had dashed the tassel twice against the pane Mary interfered.

“Would it not be better to open the window if you wish to let in the fresh air?”

“All I can say is,” said he, dropping the tassel, “that you really might come with us.”

“Very true, but there are many things I really might do, which I really won’t do. And one of them is to disappoint Lady Geraldine.”

“Hang Lady Geraldine. At least, not if she is a friend of yours, but I wish she had invited you at any other time.”

“I think you have now made quite enough fuss about my going away. I am flattered, Mr Hoskyn, and feel how poignantly you will all miss me. So let us drop the subject.”

“When shall I see you again, then?”

“Really I do not know. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you next season. Until then I shall probably be lost to view in Windsor.”

“If you mean that we may meet at dances, and that sort of thing, we are likely never to meet at all; for I never go to them.”

“Then you had better take lessons in dancing, and change your habits.”

“Not I. It is bad enough to be made a fool of by you without making one of myself.”

Mary grew nervous. “I think we are going back to the old subject,” she said.

“No. I was thinking of something else. Miss Sutherland.” here he suddenly raised his voice, which broke, and compelled him to pause and clear his throat— “Miss Sutherland: I hope I am not going to bungle this business by being too hasty — too precipitate, as it were. But if you are really going away, would you mind telling me first whether you have any objection to think over becoming Mrs Hoskyn. Just to think over it, you know.”

“Are you serious?” said Mary, incredulously.

“Of course I am. You don’t suppose I would say such a thing in jest?”

Mary discomfited, privately deplored her womanly disability to make friends with a man without being proposed to. “I think we had better drop this subject too, Mr. Hoskyn,” she replied. Then, recovering her courage, she added, “Of all the arrangements you have proposed, I think this is the most injudicious.’

“We will drop it of you like. I am in no hurry — at least I mean that I don’t wish to hurry you. But you will think it over won’t you?”

“Had you not better think over it yourself, Mr Hoskyn?”

“I have thought of it — let me see! I guess I saw you first about twenty-one days and two hours ago. Well, I have thinking over it constantly all that time.”

“Think better of it.”

“I will. The more I think of it, the better I think of it. And if you will only say yes, I shan’t think the worse of it in this world. Tell me one thing, Miss Sutherland, did you ever know me to make a mistake yet?”

“Not in my twenty-two days and two hour’s experience of you.”

“Twenty-one days and two hours. Well, I am not making a mistake now. Don’t concern yourself about my prospects: stick to your own. If you can hit it off with me. depend on it, my family affairs are settled to my satisfaction forever. What do you think?”

“I still think we had better abandon the subject.”

“For the present?”

“Forever, if you please, Mr Hoskyn.”

“For ever is a long word. I’ve been too abrupt. But you can turn it over in your mind whilst amusing yourself in Devonshire. There is no use in bothering yourself about it now, when we are all separating. Hush. Here’s Nanny.”

Mary was prevented by the entrance of Mrs Phipson from distinctly refusing Mr Hoskyn’s proposal. He, during the rest of the day, seemed to have regained his usual good spirits, and chatted with Mary without embarrassment, although he contrived not to not to be left alone with her. When she retired for the night, he had a short conversation with his sister, who asked whether he had said anything to Mary.

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn’t say much. She was rather floored: I knew I was beginning too soon. We agreed to let the matter stand over. But I expect it will be all right.”

“What on earth do you mean by agreeing to let the matter stand over? Did she say yes or no?”

“She did not jump at me. In fact she said no; but she didn’t mean it.”

“Hoity-toity! I wonder whom she would consider good enough for her. She may refuse once too often.”

“She won’t refuse me. Though, if she does, I don’t see why you should lose your temper on that score, since you have always maintained that I had no chance.”

“I am not losing my temper. I knew perfectly well that she would refuse; but I think she may go further and fare worse.”

“She hasn’t refused. And — now you mind what I am telling you, Nanny — not a word to her on the subject. Hold your tongue; and don’t pretend to know anything about my plans. Do you hear?”

“You need not make such a to-do about it, Johnny. I don’t want to speak to her. I am sure I don’t care whether she marries you or not.”

“So much the better. If you give her a hint about going further and faring worse — I know you would like to — it is all up with me.”

Mary heard no more about Mr Hoskyn’s suit just then. She left Cavendish Square next day, and went with Lady Geraldine to the southwest of Devonshire, where Sir John Porter owned a large white house with a Doric portico, standing in a park surrounded by wooded hills. Mary began sketching on the third day, in spite of her former resolution to discontinue the practice. Lady Geraldine was too busy recovering the management of her house and dairy farm after her season’s absence, to interfere with the occupation of her guest; but at the end of the week she remarked one evening with a sigh:

“No more solitude for us, Mary. Sir John is coming tomorrow, and is bringing Mr Conolly as a prisoner of the invading army of autumn visitors. Since Sir John became a director of the Electro-motor company, he become bent on having everything here done by electricity. We shall have a couple of electro-motors harnessed to the pony phaeton shortly.”

“Mr Conolly is coming on business then.”

“Of course he is coming to pay a visit and make a holiday. But he will incidentally take notes of how the place can be most inconveniently upset with his machinery.”

“You are not glad that he is coming.”

“I am indifferent. So many people come here in the autumn whom I don’t care for that I have become hardened to the labor of entertaining them. I like to have young people about me. Sir John, of course, has to do with men of business and politicians; and he invites them all to run down for a fortnight it in the off season. So they run down; and it is seldom by any means possible to wind them up for conversational purposes until they go away again.”

“Mr. Conolly never seems to require winding up. Don’t you like him?”

“He never seems to require anything, and it is partly for that reason that I don’t like him. I have no fault to find with him — that is another reason, I think. Since I met him I have become ever so much more tolerant of human frailty. I respect the brute; but I don’t like him.

This Mr Conolly was known to Mary as a man who, having been an obscure workman, had suddenly become famous as the inventor of something called an electro-motor, by which he had made much money. He had then married a highly born young lady, celebrated in society for her beauty. Not long afterwards she had eloped with a gentleman of her own rank, whom she had known all her life. Conolly had thereupon divorced her, and resumed his bachelor life, displaying so little concern, that many who knew her had since regarded him with mistrust and dislike, feeling that he was not the man to make a home for a young woman accustomed to the tenderest consideration and most chivalrous courtesy in her father’s set. Even women, whose sympathy he would not keep in countenance by any pretense of brokenheartedness, had taken his wife’s part so far as to say that he ought never to have married her. Mary had heard this much of his history in the course of gossip, and had met him a few times in society in London.

“I don’t dislike him,” she said, in reply to Lady Geraldine’s last remark; “but he is an unanswerable sort of person; and I doubt if it would make the slightest difference to him whether the whole world hated or loved him.”

“Just so. Can anything be more unamiable? Such a man ought to be a judge, or an executioner.”

“After all, he is only a man; and he must have some feeling,” said Mary.

“If he has he ought to show it,” said Lady Geraldine. A servant just then entered with letters which had come by the evening mail. There were some for Mary; among them one addressed in a rapid business hand which she did not recognize. She opened them absently, thinking that a little experience of Herbert and Jack would soon remove Lady Geraldine’s objection to Conolly’s power of selfcontrol. Then she read the letters. One was from Miss Cairns, who was at a hydropathic establishment in Derbyshire. Another was from her father, who was glad she had arrived safely in Devonshire and hoped she would enjoy herself, was sure that the country air would benefit her health, and had nothing more to say at present but would write soon again. The third letter, a long one in a strange hand, roused her attention.

Langham Hotel, London,

W., 10th August

Dear Miss Sutherland — I have returned for a few days from Trouville, where I left Nanny and the children comfortably settled. I was recalled by a telegram from our head office and now that my business there is transacted, I have nothing to do except lounge around this great barrack of a hotel until I take it into my head to go back to Trouville. I miss Cavendish Square greatly. Three or four time day I find myself preparing to go there, forgetting that there is nobody in the house, unless Nanny has left the cat to starve, as she did two years ago. You cannot imagine how lonely I find London. The hotel is full of Americans; and I have scraped acquaintance with most of them; but I am none the livelier for that: somebody or something has left a hole in this metropolis that all the Americans alive cannot fill. Tonight after dinner I felt especially dull. There are no plays worth seeing at this season; and even if there were, it is no pleasure to me to go to the theatre by myself. I have got out of the way of doing so lately; and I don’t feel as if I could ever get into it again. So I thought that writing to you would pass the time as pleasantly as anything.

You remember, I hope, a certain conversation we had on the 2nd inst. I agreed not to return to the subject until you came back from Lady Porter’s; but I was so flurried by having to speak to you sooner than I intended, that I have been doubtful ever since whether I put it to you in the right way. I am afraid I was rather vague; and though it does not do to be too businesslike on such occasions, still, you have a right to know to a fraction what my proposal means. I know you are too sensible to suppose that I am going into particulars from want of the good oldfashioned sentiment which ought to be the main point in all such matters, or by way of offering you an additional inducement. If you had only yourself to look to, I think I should have pluck enough to ask you to shut your eyes and open your mouth so far as money is concerned; but when other interested parties who may come on the scene hereafter are to be considered, it is not only allowable but right to go into figures.

There are just four points, as I reckon it: 1, I am thirty-five years of age, and have no person depending on me for support. 2, I can arrange matters so that if anything happens to me you shall have a permanent income of five hundred pounds per annum. 3, I can afford to spend a thousand a year at present, without crippling myself. 4, These figures are calculated at a percentage off the minimum, and far understate what I may reasonably expect my resources to be in the course of a few years.

I won’t go any closer into money matters with you, because I feel that bargaining would be out of place between as. You may trust me that you shall want for nothing, if — !!! I wish you would help me over that if. We got along very well together in July — at least I thought so and you seemed to think so too. Our tastes fit in together to a T. You have genius and I admire it. If I had it myself, I should be jealous of you, don’t you see? As it is, the more you sing and paint and play, the more pleased am I, though I don’t say that I would not be writing this letter all the same if you didn’t know B-flat from a bull’s foot. If you will just for this once screw up your courage and say yes, I undertake on my on my part that you shall never regret it.

An early answer will shorten my suspense. Not that I want you to write without taking plenty of time for consideration; but just remember that it will appear cent per cent longer to me than to you. Hoping you will excuse me if I have been unreasonable in following up my wishes, — I am, dear Miss Sutherland,

Sincerely yours,

John Hoskyn.

Mary thrust the letter into its envelope, and knit her brows. Lady Geraldine watched her, pretending meanwhile to be occupied with her own correspondence. “Do you know any of Mrs. Phipson’s family?” said Mary slowly, after some minutes.

“No,” replied Lady Geraldine, somewhat contemptuously. Then, recollecting that Mr Phipson’s daughter was Mary’s sister-in-law, she added, “There are brothers in Australia and Columbia who are very rich; and the youngest is a friend of Sir John’s. He’s in the Conolly Company, and is said to be a shrewd man of business. They all were, I believe. Then there were two sisters, Sarah and Lizzie Hoskyn. I can remember Lizzie when she was exactly like your brother Dick’s wife. She married a great Cornhill goldsmith in her first season. Altogether, they are a wonderful family: making money, marrying money, putting each other in the way of making and marrying more, and falling on their feet everywhere.”

“Are they the sort of people you like?”

“What do you mean by that, my dear?”

“I think I mean what I say,” said Mary laughing. “But do you think, for example, that Mrs. Phipson’s brothers and sisters are ladies and gentlemen?”

“Whether Dick’s wife’s aunts or uncles are ladies and gentlemen, eh?”

“Never mind about Dick. I have a reason for asking.”

“Well then, I think it must be sufficiently obvious to everybody that they are not what used to be called ladies and gentlemen. But what has that to do with it? Rich middle class tradespeople have had their own way in society and in everything else as long as I can remember. Even if we could go back to the ladies and gentlemen now, we could not stand them. Look at the county set here — either vapid people with affected manners, or pigheaded people with no manners at all. Each set seems the worst until you try another.”

“I quite agree with you — I mean about the Hoskyns, “ said Mary. And she changed the subject. But at bedtime, when she bade Lady Geraldine goodnight, she handed her Hoskyn’s letter, saying, “Read that; and tell me tomorrow what you think of it.”

Lady Geraldine read the letter in bed, and lay awake, thinking of it for half an hour later than usual. In the morning, Mary, before leaving her room, received a note. It ran:

“Sir John will come by the three train. We can chat afterwards — when he and Mr Conolly are settled here and off my mind. —

G. P.

Mary understood from this that she was not to approach the subject of Mr Hoskyn until Lady Geraldine invited her. At breakfast no allusion was made to him, except that once, when they chanced to look at one another, they laughed. But Lady Geraldine immediately after became graver than usual, and began to talk about the dairy farm.

At three o’clock Sir John, heavy, double chinned and white haired arrived with a younger man in a grey suit.

“Well, Mr Conolly,” said Sir John, as they passed under the Doric portico, “Here we are at last.”

“At home,” said Conolly, contentedly. Lady Geraldine, who was there to welcome them, looked at him quickly, her hospitality gratified by the word. Then the thought of what what he had made of his own home hardened her heart against him. Her habitual candid manner and abundance of shrewd comment forsook her in his presence. She was silent and scrupulously polite, and by that Mary and Sir John knew that she was under the constraint of strong dislike to her guest.

Later in the afternoon, Conolly asked permission to visit the farm, and inquired whether there was any running water in the neighborhood. Sir John proposed to accompany him; but he declined, on the ground that a prospecting engineer was the worst of bad company. When he was gone, Lady Geraldine’s bosom heaved with relief: she recovered her spirits, and presently followed Sir John to the library, where they had a long conversation together. Having concluded it to her satisfaction, she was leaving the room, when Sir John, who was seated at a writing table, coughed and said mildly:

“ My dear.”

Lady Geraldine closed the door again, and turned to listen.

“I was thinking, as we came down together,” said Sir John slowly, smiling and combing his beard with his fingers, “that perhaps he might take a fancy that way.”

“Who?”

“Conolly, my dear.”

“Stuff!” said Lady Geraldine sharply. Sir John smiled in deprecation. “At least,” she added, repenting, “I mean that he is married already.”

“But he is free to marry again.”

“Besides, he is not a gentleman.”

“Well,” said Sir John, good humoredly, “I think we agreed just now that that did not matter.”

“Yes, in Hoskyn’s case.”

“Just so. Now Conolly is a man of greater culture than Hoskyn. Of course, it is only a notion of mine; and I dare say you are quite right if you disapprove of it. But since Mary is a girl with nice tastes — for art and so forth — I thought that perhaps she might not suit a thorough man of business. Hoskyn is only an Americanized commercial traveler.”

“Conolly is an American too. But that has nothing to do with it. Conolly treated his wife badly: that is enough for me. I am certain he would make any woman miserable.”

“If he really did.”

“But, dear,” interrupted Lady Geraldine, with restrained impatience, “don’t you know he did? Everybody knows it.”

Sir John shrugged himself placidly. “They say so,” he said. “I am afraid he was not all that he should have been to her. She was a charming creature — a great beauty, and, I thought, great rectitude. Dear me! You are right, as usual, Joldie, it would not suit.”

Lady Geraldine left the library, and went to dress for dinner, disturbed by the possibility which Sir John had suggested. At dinner she watched Conolly and observed that he conversed chiefly with Mary, and seemed to know more than she on all her favorite subjects. Afterwards, when they were in the drawing room, Mary asked him whether he played the piano. As he replied in the affirmative, Lady Geraldine was compelled to ask him to favor her with a performance. At their request he played some of Jack’s music, much more calmly and accurately than Jack, himself played it. Then he made Mary sing, and was struck by her declamatory style, which jarred Lady Geraldine’s nerves nearly as much as it had Mrs Phipson’s. He next sang himself, Mary accompanying him, and at first soothed Lady Geraldine by his rich baritone voice, and then roused her suspicions by singing a serenade with great expression, which she privately set down as a coldblooded hypocrisy on his part. She at last persuaded herself that he was deliberately trying to engage the affections of Mary, with the intention of making her his second wife. Afterwards, he went out with Sir John, who often smoked cigars after dinner in the portico, and was fond of having a companion on such occasions.

“Thank goodness!” said Lady Geraldine. “Bluebeard has gone; and we can have our chat at last.”

“Why Bluebeard?” said Mary, laughing. “His beard is auburn. Has he been married more than once?”

“No. But mark my words, he will marry at least half-a-dozen times; and he will kill all his wives, unless they run away from him, as poor Marian did. However, so long as he does not marry us, he can do as he likes. The question of the day is, what are you going to say to Mr John Hoskyn?”

“Oh!” said Mary, her face clouding. “Let Mr John Hoskyn wait. I wish he were in America.”

“And why?” said Lady Geraldine in an obstinate tone.

“Because I want to enjoy my visit here and not be worried by his proposals.”

“You can answer him in five minutes, and then enjoy your visit as much as if he actually were in America.”

“That is true. Except that it will take much longer than five minutes to devise a letter that will not hurt his feelings too much.”

“I could write a sensible letter for you that would not hurt his feelings at all.”

“Will you? I shall be so much obliged. I hate refusing people.”

“Mary: I hope you are not going to be foolish about this offer.”

“Do you mean,” said Mary, astonished, “that you advise me to accept it?”

“Most decidedly.”

“But you said last night that he was not even a gentleman.”

“Oh, a gentleman! Nonsense! What is a gentleman? Who is a gentleman nowadays? Is Mr Conolly, with whom you seem so well pleased” (Mary opened her eyes widely) a gentleman? Or Mr. Jack?”

“Do you consider Mr. Herbert a gentleman?”

“Yes, I grant you that. I forgot him, but I only conclude from your experience of him that a mere gentleman would not do for you at all. Do you dislike Mr Hoskyn?”

“No. But then I do not absolutely dislike any man; and I know nearly a hundred.”

“Is there anyone whom you like better?”

“N–no. Of course I am speaking only of people whom I could marry. Still that is not saying much. If I heard that he was leaving the country for ever, I should be rather relieved than otherwise.”

“Yes, my dear, I know it is very annoying to be forced to make up one’s mind. But you will gain nothing by putting off. I have been speaking to Sir John about Mr Hoskyn and everything he has told me is satisfactory in the highest degree.”

“I am sure of it. Respectable, well off, rising, devotedly attached to me, calculates his figures at a percentage off the minimum, and so forth.”

“Mary,” said Lady Geraldine gravely: “have I mentioned I even one of those points to you?”

“No,” said Mary, taken a little aback. “But what other light can you see him in?”

“In the best of all lights: that of a comfortable husband. I am in dread for you lest your notions of high art should make you do something foolish. When you have had as much experience as I, you will know that genius no more qualifies a man to be a husband than good looks, or fine manners, or noble birth, or anything else out of a story book.”

“But want of genius is still less a qualification.”

“Genius, Mary, is a positive disqualification. Geniuses are morbid, intolerant, easily offended, sleeplessly self-conscious men, who expect their wives to be angels with no further business in life than to pet and worship their husbands. Even at the best they are not comfortable men to live with; and a perfect husband is one who is perfectly comfortable to live with. Look at the matter practically. Do you suppose, you foolish child, that I am a bit less happy because Sir John does not know a Raphael from a Redgrave, and would accept the last waltz cheerfully as a genuine something-or-other by Bach in B minor? Our tastes are quite different; and, to confess the truth, I was no more romantically in love with him when we were married than you are at present with Mr Hoskyn. Yet where will you find such a modern Darby and Joan as we are? You hear Belle Saunders complaining that she has ‘nothing in common’ with her husband. What cant! As if any two beings living in the same world must not have more things in common than not; especially a husband and wife living in the same house, on the same income, and owning the same children. Why, I have something in common with Macalister, the gardener. I can find you a warning as well as an example, I knew Mr Conolly’s wife well before she was married. She was a woman of whom it was impossible to believe anything bad. In an evil hour she met Conolly at a charity concert where they had both promised to sing. Of course he sang as if he was all softness and gentleness, much as he did just now, probably. Then there was a charming romance. She like you, was fond of books, pictures, and music. He knew all about them. She was very honest and candid: he a statue of probity. He was a genius too; and his fame was a novelty then: everybody talked of him. Never was there such an match. She was the only woman in England worthy of him: he the only man worthy of her. Well, she married him, in spite of the patent fact that with all his genius, he is a most uncomfortable person. She endured him for two years then ran away with an arrogant blockhead who had nothing to recommend him to her except an imposing appearance and an extreme unlikeness to her husband. She has never been heard of since. If she had married man like Hoskyn, she could have been a happy wife and mother today. But she was like you she thought that taking a husband was the same thing as engaging gentleman to talk art criticism with.”

“I think I had better advertise, ‘Wanted: a comfortable husband. Applicants need not be handsome, as the lady is shortsighted. It sounds very prosaic, Lady Geraldine.”

“It is prosaic. I told you once before that the world is is not a stage for you to play the heroine on. Like all young people, you want an exalted motive for every step you take.”

“I confess I do. However, you have forgotten to apply your argument to Mr. Hoskyn’s case. If people with artistic tastes are all uncomfortable, I must be uncomfortable; and that is not fair to him.”

“No matter. He is in love with you. Besides, you are not artistic enough to be uncomfortable. You have been your father’s housekeeper too long.”

“And you really advise me to marry Mr. Hoskyn?”

Lady. Geraldine hesitated. “I think you can hardly expect me to take the responsibility of directly advising you to marry any man. It is one of the things that people must do for themselves. But I certainly advise you not to be deterred from marrying him by any supposed incompatibility in your tastes, or by his not being a man of genius.”

“I wonder would Mr. Conolly marry me.”

“Mary!”

“It was an unmaidenly remark,” said Mary, laughing.”

“It is undignified for a sensible girl to play at being silly, Mary. I hope you have no serious intention beneath your jesting. If you have, I shall be very sorry indeed for having allowed Mr. Conolly to meet you here.”

“Not the slightest, I assure you. Why, Lady Geraldine, you look quite alarmed.”

“I do not trust Mr. Conolly much. Marian Lind was infatuated by him; and another woman may share her fate — unless she happens to share my feeling towards him, in which case she may be regarded as perfectly safe. He is a dangerous subject. Let us leave him and come back to our main business. Is Mr. Hoskyn to be made happy or not?”

“I don’t want to marry at all. Let him have Miss Cairns: she would suit him exactly.”

“Well, if you don’t want to marry at all, my dear, there is an end of it. I have said all I can. You must decide for yourself.”

Mary, perceiving that Lady Geraldine felt offended, was about to make a soothing speech, when she heard a chair move, and, looking up saw that Conolly was in the room.

“Do I disturb you?”

Not at all,” Said Lady Geraldine with dignity, looking at him rather severely and wondering how long he had been there.

“We were discussing sociology.” said Mary.

“Ah!” he said, serenely. “And have you arrived at any important generalizations?”

“Most important ones.”

“What about? — if I may ask.”

“About marriage.” Lady Geraldine stamped hastily on Mary’s foot, and looked reproachfully at her.

Mary felt her color deepen, but she faced him boldly.

“And have you come the usual conclusions?” he said, sitting down near them.

“What are the usual conclusions?” said Mary.

“That marriage is a mistake. That men who surrender their liberty, and women who surrender their independence are fools. That children are a nuisance, and so forth.”

“We have come to any such conclusions. We rather started in with the assumption that marriage is a necessary evil, and were debating how to make the best of it.”

“On which point you differed, of course.”

“Why of course?”

“Because Lady Geraldine is married and you are not. Can I help you to arrive at a compromise? I am peculiarly fitted for the task, because I am not married, and yet I have been married.”

Lady Geraldine, who had turned her chair so as to avert her face from him, looked round. Disregarding this mute protest, he continued, addressing Mary. “Will you tell me the point at issue?”

“It is not so very important,” said Mary, a little confused. “We were only exchanging a few casual remarks. A question arose as to whether the best men make the best husbands. I mean the cleverest men — men of genius, for instance. Lady Geraldine said no. She maintains that a goodnatured blockhead makes a far better husband than a Caesar or a Shakespeare.”

“Did you say that?” said Conolly to Lady Geraldine, with a smile.

“No,” she replied, almost uncivilly. “Blockheads are never goodnatured. At best, they are only lazy. I said that a man might be a very good husband without any special culture in the arts and sciences. Mary seemed to think that any person who understands as much of painting as an artist, is a person who sympathizes with that artist, and therefore a suitable match for her — or him. I disagree with her. I believe that community of taste for art has just as much to do with matrimonial happiness as community of taste for geography or roast mutton, and no more.”

“And no more,” repeated Conolly. “You are quite right. Heroes are ill adapted to domestic purposes. That is what you mean, is it not? Perhaps Miss Sutherland will be content with nothing less than a hero.”

“No,” said Mary. “But T will never admit that a man is not the better for being a hero. According to you, he is the worse. I heartily despise a woman who marries a fool in order that she may live comfortably despotic in her own house. I do not make absolute heroism an indispensable condition — I do not know exactly what heroism means; but I think a man may reasonably be expected to be free from vulgar prejudices against the efforts of artists to make life beautiful; and to have so disciplined himself that a wife can always depend on his selfcontrol and moral rectitude. It must be terrible to live in constant dread of childish explosions of temper from one’s husband, or to fear, at every crisis, that he will not act like a man of sense and honor.”

Conolly looked at her curiously, and then, with an intent deliberation, that gave the fullest emphasis to his words, leaned a little toward her with his hands upon his knees, and said “Did you ever live with a person whose temper was imperturbable — who never hesitated to apply his principles, and never swerved from acting as they dictated? One who, whatever he might be to himself, was to you so void of petty jealousies, irritabilities and superstitions of ordinary men, that, as far as you understood his view of life, you could calculate his correct behavior beforehand in every crisis with as much certainty as upon the striking of a clock?”

“No,” said Lady Geraldine emphatically, before Mary could reply; “and I should not like to, either.”

“You are always right,” said Conolly. “Yet such a person would fulfill Miss Sutherland’s conditions. Like Hamlet,” he continued, turning to Mary, “you want a man that is not Passion’s slave. I hope you may never get him, for I assure you, you will not like him. He would make an excellent God, but a most unpleasant man, and an unbearable husband. What could you be to a wholly self-sufficient man? Affection would be a superfluity with which you would be ashamed to trouble him. I once knew a lady whom I thought the most beautiful, the most accomplished, and the most honest of her sex. This lady met a man who had learned to stand alone in the world — a hard lesson, but one that is relentlessly forced on every sensitive but unlovable boy who has his own way to make, and who knows that, outside himself, there is no God to help him. This man had realized all that is humanly possible in your ideal of a self-disciplined man. The lady was young, and, unlike Lady Geraldine, not wise. Instead of avoiding his imperturbable self-sufficiency, she admired it, loved it, and married it. She found in her husband all that you demand. She never had reason to dread his temper, or to doubt his sense and honor. He needed no petting, no counsel, no support. He had no vulgar prejudices against art, and, indeed, was fonder of it than she was. What she felt about him I can only conjecture. But I know that she ceased to love him, whilst around her thousands of wives were clinging fondly to husbands who bullied and beat them, to fools, savages, drunkards, knaves, Passion’s slaves of many patterns, but all weak enough to need caresses and forgiveness occasionally. Eventually she left him, and it served him right; for this model husband, who had never forfeited his wife’s esteem, or tried her forbearance by word or deed, had led her to believe that he would be as happy without her as with her. A man who is complete in himself needs no wife. If you value your happiness, seek for someone who needs you, who begs for you, and who, because loneliness is death to him, will never cease to need you. Have I made myself clear?”

“ Yes,” said Mary. “I think I understand, though I do not say I agree.”

Sir John came in just then, opportunely enough, and he found Conolly quite willing to talk about the prospects of the Company, although the ladies were thereby excluded from any part or interest in the conversation. Mary took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed save by her hostess. When Conolly’s attention was released by Sir John going to the library fore some papers, he found himself alone with Lady Geraldine.

“Mr Conolly,”said Lady Geraldine, overcoming , with obvious effort, her reluctance to speak to him: “although you were of course not aware of it, you chose a most unfortunate moment for explaining your views to Miss Sutherland. There are circumstances which render it very undesirable that her judgment should be biased against marriage just at present.”

“I hardly follow you,” said Conolly, with a benignant self-possession which made Lady Geraldine privately quail. “Are you opposed to the suit of Mr Hoskyn?” She looked at him in consternation.” I see you are surprised by my knowledge of Miss Sutherland’s affairs,” he continued. “But that only convinces me that you do not know Mr Hoskyn. In business matters he can sometimes keep a secret. In personal matters he is indiscretion personified. Everybody in Queen Victoria Street, from the messenger to the Chairman, is informed of the state of his affections.”

“But why, if you knew this, did you talk as you did?”

“Because,” said he, smiling at her impatience, “I did not then know that you disapproved of his proposal.”

“Mr Conolly,” said Lady Geraldine, trying to speak politely: “I don’t disapprove of it.”

“Then we are somehow at cross purposes. I too, approve; and as Hoskyn is not, to my knowledge, likely to be a hero in the eyes of a young lady of Miss Sutherland’s culture, I ventured to warn her that he might be all the better qualified to make her happy.”

“I told her so myself. But if you want to encourage a young girl to marry, surely it is not a very judicious thing to give such a bad account of your own married life.”

“Of my own married life?”

“I mean,” said Lady Geraldine, coloring deeply, “of your own experience of married life — what you have observed in others.” She stopped, feeling that this was a paltry evasion, and added, “I beg your pardon. I fear I have made a very painful blunder.”

“No. An allusion to my marriage — from you — does not pain me. I know your sympathies are not with me; and I am pleased to think that they are therefore where they are most needed and deserved. As to Miss Sutherland, I do not think that what I said will have the effect you fear. In any case, my words are beyond recall. If she refuses Mr Hoskyn, I shall bear the blame. If she accepts him; I will claim to have been your ally.

“She would be angry if she knew that you were aware, all the time you were talking, of her position.”

“Angry with me: yes. That does not matter. But if she knew that Mr. Hoskyn had told me, she would be angry with him; and that would matter very much.”

Before Lady Geraldine could reply, her husband returned; and Conolly withdrew shortly afterwards for the night.

Next day, Mary received from Hoskyn a second letter begging her to postpone her answer until he had seen her, as he had become convinced that such matters ought to be conducted personally instead of by writing. As soon as he had ascertained which hotel was the near Sir John’s house, he would, he wrote, put up there and ask Mary to contrive one long interview. She was not to mention his presence to Lady Geraldine, lest she should think he expected to be asked on a visit. Mary immediately made Lady Geraldine promise that he should not be asked on a visit; and then, to avoid the threatened interview, made up her mind and wrote to him as follows:

Dear Mr. Hoskyn —

I shall not give you the trouble of coming down here to urge what you so frankly proposed in your first letter. 1 trust it will relieve your anxiety to learn that I have decided to accept your offer. However, as the position we are now in is one that we could not properly maintain whilst visiting at the house of a friend, I beg that you will give up all idea of seeing me until I leave Devonshire. My social duties here are so heavy that I can hardly, without seeming rude, absent myself to write a long letter. I suppose you will go back to Trouville until we all return to London. — I am, dear Mr. Hoskyn,

Yours sincerely,

Mary Sutherland.

Mary composed this letter with difficulty, and submitted it to Lady Geraldine, who said, “It is not very loving. That about your social duties is a fib. And you want him to go to Trouville because he cannot write so often.”

“I can do no better,” said Mary. “But you are right. I will burn it and write him another, refusing him point blank. That will be the shortest.”

“No, thank you. This will do very well.” And Lady Geraldine closed it with her own hands and sent it to the post. Later in the afternoon Mary said, “I am exceedingly sorry I sent that letter. I have found out my real mind about Mr Hoskyn at last. I detest him.”

Lady Geraldine only laughed at her.