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Marian Lind lived at Westbourne Terrace, Paddington, with her father, the fourth son of a younger brother of the Earl of Carbury. Mr. Reginald Harrington Lind, at the outset of his career, had no object in life except that of getting through it as easily as possible; and this he understood so little how to achieve that he suffered himself to be married at the age of nineteen to a Lancashire cotton spinner’s heiress. She bore him three children, and then eloped with a professor of spiritualism, who deserted her on the eve of her fourth confinement, in the course of which she caught scarlet fever and died. Her child survived, but was sent to a baby farm and starved to death in the usual manner. Her husband, disgusted by her behavior (for she had been introduced by him to many noblemen and gentlemen, his personal friends, some one at least of whom, on the slightest encouragement, would, he felt sure, have taken the place of the foreign charlatan she had disgraced him by preferring), consoled himself for her bad taste by entering into her possessions, which comprised a quantity of new jewellery, new lace, and feminine apparel, and an income of nearly seven thousand pounds a year. After this, he became so welcome in society that he could have boasted with truth at the end of any July that there were few marriageable gentlewomen of twenty-six and upward in London who had not been submitted to his inspection with a view to matrimony. But finding it easy to delegate the care of his children to school principals and hospitable friends, he concluded that he had nothing to gain and much comfort to lose by adding a stepmother to his establishment; and, after some time, it became the custom to say of Mr. Lind that the memory of his first wife kept him single. Thus, whilst his sons were drifting to manhood through Harrow and Cambridge, and his daughter passing from one relative’s house to another’s on a continual round of visits, sharing such private tuition as the cousins with whom she happened to be staying happened to be receiving just then, he lived at his club and pursued the usual routine of a gentleman-bachelor in London.

In the course of time, Reginald Lind, the eldest child, entered the army, and went to India with his regiment. His brother George, less stolid, weaker, and more studious, preferred the Church. Marian, the youngest, from being constantly in the position of a guest, had early acquired habits of selfcontrol and consideration for others, and escaped the effects, good and evil, of the subjection in which children are held by the direct authority of their parents.

Of the numerous domestic circles of her father’s kin, that with which she was the least familiar, because it was the poorest, had sprung from the marriage of one of her father’s sisters with a Wiltshire gentleman named Hardy McQuinch, who had a small patrimony, a habit of farming, and a love of hunting. In the estimation of the peasantry, who would not associate lands, horses, and a carriage, with want of money, he was a rich man; but Mrs. McQuinch found it hard to live like a lady on their income, and had worn many lines into her face by constantly and vainly wishing that she could afford to give a ball every season, to get a new carriage, and to appear at church with her daughters in new dresses oftener than twice a year. Her two eldest girls were plump and pleasant, good riders and hearty eaters; and she had reasonable hopes of marrying them to prosperous country gentlemen.

Elinor, her third and only other child, was one of her troubles. At an early age it was her practice, once a week or thereabouts, to disappear in the forenoon; be searched anxiously for all day; and return with a torn frock and dirty face at about six o’clock in the afternoon. She was stubborn, rebellious, and passionate under reproof or chastisement: governesses had left the house because of her; and from one school she had run away, from another eloped with a choir boy who wrote verses. Him she deserted in a fit of jealousy, quarter of an hour after her escape from school. The only one of her tastes that conduced to the peace of the house was for reading; and even this made her mother uneasy; for the books she liked best were fit, in Mrs. McQuinch’s opinion, for the bookcase only. Elinor read openly what she could obtain by asking, such as Lamb’s Tales from Shakespear, and The Pilgrim’s Progress. The Arabian Nights Entertainments were sternly refused her; so she read them by stealth; and from that day there was always a collection of books, borrowed from friends, or filched from the upper shelf in the library, beneath her mattress. Nobody thought of looking there for them; and even if they had, they might have paused to reflect on the consequences of betraying her. Her eldest sister having given her a small workbox on her eleventh birthday, had the present thrown at her head two days later for reporting to her parents that Nelly’s fondness for sitting in a certain secluded summer-house was due to her desire to read Lord Byron’s poetry unobserved. Miss Lydia’s forehead was severely cut; and Elinor, though bitterly remorseful, not only refused to beg pardon for her fault, but shattered every brittle article in the room to which she was confined for her contumacy. The vicar, on being consulted, recommended that she should be well whipped. This counsel was repugnant to Hardy McQuinch, but he gave his wife leave to use her discretion in the matter. The mother thought that the child ought to be beaten into submission; but she was afraid to undertake the task, and only uttered a threat, which was received with stubborn defiance. This was forgotten next day when Elinor, exhausted by a week of remorse, terror, rage, and suspense, became dangerously ill. When she recovered, her parents were more indulgent to her, and were gratified by finding her former passionate resistance replaced by sulky obedience. Five years elapsed, and Elinor began to write fiction. The beginning of a novel, and many incoherent verses imitated from Lara, were discovered by her mother, and burnt by her father. This outrage she never forgave. She was unable to make her resentment felt, for she no longer cared to break glass and china. She feared even to remonstrate lest she should humiliate herself by bursting into tears, as, since her illness, she had been prone to do in the least agitation. So she kept silence, and ceased to speak to either of her parents except when they addressed questions to her. Her father would neither complain of this nor confess the regret he felt for his hasty destruction of her manuscripts; but, whilst he proclaimed that he would burn every scrap of her nonsense that might come into his hands, he took care to be blind when he surprised her with suspicious bundles of foolscap, and snubbed his wife for hinting that Elinor was secretly disobeying him. Meanwhile her silent resentment never softened, and the life of the family was embittered by their consciousness of it. It never occurred to Mrs. McQuinch, an excellent mother to her two eldest daughters, that she was no more fit to have charge of the youngest than a turtle is to rear a young eagle. The discomfort of their relations never shook her faith in their “naturalness.” Like her husband and the vicar, she believed that when God sent children he made their parents fit to rule them. And Elinor resented her parents’ tyranny, as she felt it to be, without dreaming of making any allowances for their being in a false position towards her.

One morning a letter from London announced that Mr. Lind had taken a house in Westbourne Terrace, and intended to live there permanently with his daughter. Elinor had not come down to breakfast when the post came.

“Yes,” said Mrs. McQuinch, when she had communicated the news: “I knew there was something the matter when I saw Reginald’s handwriting. It must be fully eighteen months since I heard from him last. I am very glad he has settled Marian in a proper home, instead of living like a bachelor and leaving her to wander about from one house to another. I wish we could have afforded to ask her down here oftener.”

“Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly,” said Lydia, who had been examining the envelope.

“To Nelly!” said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. “I think she should have invited one of you first.”

“Perhaps it is not an invitation,” said Jane.

“What else is it likely to be, child?” said Mrs. McQuinch. Then, as she thought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, she added, “After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here. She needs change, I think. I wish she would come down. It is too bad of her to be always late like this.”

Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale; her eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wisps over her forehead. Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin and gold lockets, emphasized her by contrast. Being blond and gregarious, they enjoyed the reputation of being pretty and affectionate. They had thriven in the soil that had starved Elinor.

“There’s a letter for you from Marian,” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“Thanks,” said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her pocket. She liked Marian’s letters, and kept them to read in her hours of solitude.

“What does she say?” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“I have not looked,” replied Elinor.

“Well,” said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, “I wish you would look. I want to know whether she says anything about this letter from your uncle Reginald.”

Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it.

Suddenly she set her face to hide some emotion from her family.

“Marian wants me to go and stay with her,” she said. “They have taken a house.”

“Poor Marian!” said Jane. “And will you go?”

“I will,” said Elinor. “Have you any objection?”

“Oh dear, no,” said Jane, smoothly.

“I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home,” said Mrs.

McQuinch, incontinently.

“Very glad,” said Elinor. Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over his newspaper. Mrs. McQuinch was huffed.

“I dont know what you are to do for clothes,” she said, “unless Lydia and Jane are content to wear their last winter’s dresses again this year.”

The faces of the young ladies elongated. “That’s nonsense, mamma,” said Lydia. “We cant wear those brown reps again.” Women wore reps in those days.

“You need not be alarmed,” said Elinor. “I dont want any clothes. I can go as I am.”

“You dont know what you are talking about, child,” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald’s drawingroom with that dress on!” said Lydia.

“And your hair in that state!” added Jane.

“You should remember that there are others to be considered besides yourself,” said Lydia. “How would you like your guests to look like scarecrows?”

“How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park? I suppose — —”

“Here, here!” said Mr. McQuinch, putting down his paper. “Let us have no more of this. What else do you need in the Park than a riding habit? You have that already. Whatever clothes you want you had better get in London, where you will get the proper things for your money.”

“Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four prices for things she can get quite as good down here.”

“I tell you I dont want anything,” said Elinor impatiently. “It will be time enough to begrudge me some decent clothes when I ask for them.”

“I dont begrudge — —”

Mrs. McQuinch’s husband interrupted her. “Thats enough, now, everybody. It’s settled that she is to go, as she wants to. I will get her what is necessary. Give me another egg, and talk about something else.”

Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace. Marian had spent a month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor an exacting friend, always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous and sulky for days if one of her sisters, or any other little girl, engaged her cousin’s attention long. On the other hand, Elinor’s attachment was idolatrous in its intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and more apt to fear that she had disregarded Elinor’s feelings than to take offence at her waywardness, their friendship endured after they were parted. Their promises of correspondence were redeemed by Elinor with very long letters at uncertain intervals, and by Marian with shorter epistles notifying all her important movements. Marian, often called upon to defend her cousin from the charge of being a little shrew, was led to dwell upon her better qualities. Elinor found in Marian what she had never found at her own home, a friend, and in her uncle’s house a refuge from that of her father, which she hated. She had been Marian’s companion for four years when the concert took place at Wandsworth.

Next day they were together in the drawingroom at Westbourne Terrace: Marian writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technical studies, to which she had been incited by the shortcoming of her performance on the previous night. She stopped on hearing a bell ring.

“What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment. “Surely it is too early for a visit.”

“It is only half past two,” replied Marian. “I hope it is not anybody. I have not half finished my correspondence.”

“If you please, Miss,” said a maid, entering, “Mr. Douglas wants to see you, and he wont come up.”

“I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall,” said

Elinor.

“He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular,” said the maid.

“Tell him I will come down,” said Marian.

“He heard me practising,” said Elinor, “that is why he would not come up. I am in disgrace, I suppose.”

“Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain of our conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone.”

Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian’s guileless eyes, but resumed her technical studies without saying anything. Marian went to the dining-room, where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall and handsome, frock coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness that established a sort of relationship between him and the sideboard, the condition of which did credit to Marian’s influence over her housemaids. He looked intently at her as she bade him good morning.

“I am afraid I am rather early,” he said, half stiffly, half apologetically.

“Not at all,” said Marian.

“I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longer than I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope to find you alone. I hope I have not disturbed you. I have something rather important to say.”

“You are the same as one of ourselves, of course, Sholto. But I believe you delight in stiffness and ceremony. Will you not come upstairs?”

“I wish to speak to you privately. First, I have to apologize to you for what passed last night.”

“Pray dont, Sholto: it doesnt matter. I am afraid we were rude to you.”

“Pardon me. It is I who am in fault. I never before made an apology to any human being; and I should not do so now without a painful conviction that I forgot what I owed to myself.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself — I mean for never having apologized before. I am quite sure you have not got through life without having done at least one or two things that required an apology.”

“I am sorry you hold that opinion of me.”

“How is Brutus’s paw?”

“Brutus!”

“Yes. That abrupt way of changing the subject is what Mrs. Fairfax calls a display of tact. I know it is very annoying; so you may talk about anything you please. But I really want to hear how the poor dog is.”

“His paw is nearly healed.”

“I’m so glad — poor old dear!”

“You are aware that I did not come here to speak of my mother’s dog,

Marian?”

“I supposed not,” said Marian, with a smile. “But now that you have made your apology, wont you come upstairs? Nelly is there.”

“I have something else to say — to you alone, Marian. I entreat you to listen to it seriously.” Marian looked as grave as she could. “I confess that in some respects I do not understand you; and before you enter upon another London season, through which I cannot be at your side, I would obtain from you some assurance of the nature of your regard for me. I do not wish to harass you with jealous importunity. You have given me the most unequivocal tokens of a feeling different from that which inspires the ordinary intercourse of a lady and gentleman in society; but of late it has seemed to me that you maintain as little reserve toward other men as toward me. I am not thinking of Marmaduke: he is your cousin. But I observed that even the working man who sang at the concert last night was received — I do not say intentionally — with a cordiality which might have tempted a more humbly disposed person than he seemed to be to forget — —” Here Douglas, seeing Marian’s bearing change suddenly, hesitated. Her beautiful gray eyes, always pleading for peace like those of a good angel, were now full of reproach; and her mouth, but for those eyes, would have suggested that she was at heart an obstinate woman.

“Sholto,” she said, “I dont know what to say to you. If this is jealousy, it may be very flattering; but it is ridiculous. If it is a lecture, seriously intended, it is — it is really most insulting. What do you mean by my having given you unequivocal signs of regard? Of course I think of you very differently from the chance acquaintances I make in society. It would be strange if I did not, having known you so long and been your mother’s guest so often. But you talk almost as if I had been making love to you.”

“No,” said Douglas, forgetting his ceremonious manner and speaking angrily and naturally; “but you talk as though I had not been making love to you.”

“If you have, I never knew it. I never dreamt it.”

“Then, since you are not the stupidest lady of my acquaintance, you must be the most innocent.”

“Tell me of one single occasion on which anything has passed between us that justifies your speaking to me as you are doing now.”

“Innumerable occasions. But since I cannot compel you to acknowledge them, it would be useless to cite them.”

“All I can say is that we have utterly misunderstood one another,” she said, after a pause.

He said nothing, but took up his hat, and looked down at it with angry determination. Marian, too uneasy to endure silence, added:

“But I shall know better in future.”

“True,” said Douglas, hastily putting down his hat and advancing a step. “You cannot plead misunderstanding now. Can you give me the assurance I seek?”

“What assurance?”

Douglas shook his shoulders impatiently.

“You expect me to know everything by intuition,” she said.

“Well, my declaration shall be definite enough, even for you. Do you love me?”

“No, I dont think I do. In fact, I am quite sure I do not — in the way you mean. I wish you would not talk like this, Sholto. We have all got on so pleasantly together: you, and I, and Nelly, and Marmaduke, and my father. And now you begin making love, and stuff of that kind. Pray let us agree to forget all about it, and remain friends as before.”

“You need not be anxious about our future relations: I shall not embarrass you with my society again. I hoped to find you a woman capable of appreciating a man’s passion, even if you should be unable to respond to it. But I perceive that you are only a girl, not yet aware of the deeper life that underlies the ice of conventionality.”

“That is a very good metaphor for your own case,” said Marian, interrupting him. “Your ordinary manner is all ice, hard and chilling. One may suspect that there are depths beneath, but that is only an additional inducement to keep on the surface.”

“Then even your amiability is a delusion! Or is it that you are amiable to the rest of the world, and reserve taunts of coldness and treachery for me?”

“No, no,” she said, angelic again. “You have taken me up wrongly. I did not mean to taunt you.”

“You conceal your meaning as skilfully as — according to you — I have concealed mine. Good-morning.”

“Are you going already?”

“Do you care one bit for me, Marian?”

“I do indeed. Believe me, you are one of my special friends.”

“I do not want to be one of your friends. Will you be my wife?”

“Sholto!”

“Will you be my wife?”

“No. I — —”

“Pardon me. That is quite sufficient. Good-morning.”

The moment he interrupted her, a change in her face shewed she had a temper. She did not move a muscle until she heard the house door close behind him. Then she ran upstairs to the drawingroom, where Miss McQuinch was still practising.

“Oh, Nelly,” she cried, throwing herself into an easy chair, and covering her face with her hands. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” She opened her fingers and looked whimsically at her cousin, who, despising this stage business, said, impatiently:

“Well?”

“Do you know what Sholto came for?”

“To propose to you.”

“Stop, Nelly. You do not know what horrible things one may say in jest.

He has proposed.”

“When will the wedding be?”

“Dont joke about it, please. I scarcely know how I have behaved, or what the meaning of the whole scene is, yet. Listen. Did you ever suspect that he was — what shall I say? — courting me?”

“I saw that he was trying to be tender in his own conceited way. I fully expected he would propose some day, if he could once reconcile himself to a wife who was not afraid of him.”

“And you never told me.”

“I thought you saw it for yourself; particularly as you encouraged him.”

“There! The very thing he has been accusing me of! He said I had given him unequivocal tokens — yes, unequivocal tokens — that I was madly in love with him.”

“What did you say? — if I may ask.”

“I tried to explain things to him; but he persisted in asking me would I be his wife; and when I refused he would not listen to anything else, and went off in a rage.”

“Yes, I can imagine Sholto’s feelings on discovering that he had humbled himself in vain. Why did you refuse him?”

“Why! Fancy being Sholto’s wife! I would as soon think of marrying

Marmaduke. But I cannot forget what he said about my flirting with him.

Nelly: will you promise to tell me whenever you think I am behaving in a

way that might lead anybody on to — like Sholto, you know?”

“Nonsense! If men choose to make fools of themselves, you cannot prevent them. Hush! I hear someone coming upstairs. It is Marmaduke, I think.”

“Marmaduke would never come up so slowly. He generally comes up three steps at a time.”

“Sulky after last night, no doubt. I suppose he wont speak to me.”

Marmaduke entered listlessly. “Good morning, Marian,” he said, sitting down on an uncomfortable chair. “Good morrow, Nell.”

Elinor, surprised at the courtesy, looked up and saluted him snappishly.

“Is there anything the matter, Duke?” said Marian. “Are you ill?”

“No, I’m all right. Rather busy: thats all.”

“Busy!” said Elinor. “There must be something even more unusual than that, when you are too low spirited to keep up a quarrel with me. Why dont you sit on the easy chair, or sprawl on the ottoman, after your manner?”

“Anything for a quiet life,” he replied, moving to the ottoman.

“You must be hungry,” said Marian, puzzled by his obedience. “Let me get you something.”

“No, thank you,” said Marmaduke. “I couldnt eat. Just had lunch. Ive come to pack up a few things of mine that you have here.”

“We have your banjo.”

“Oh, I dont want that. You may keep it, or put it in the fire, for all I care. I want some clothes I left behind me when we had the theatricals.”

“Are you leaving London?”

“Yes. I am getting tired of loafing about here. I think I ought to go home for a while. My mother wants me to.”

Miss McQuinch, by a subdued but expressive snort, conveyed the most entire scepticism as to his solicitude about his mother. She then turned to the piano calmly, observing, “You have probably eaten something that disagrees with you.”

“What a shame!” said Marian. “Come, Duke: I have plenty of good news for you. Nelly and I are invited to Carbury Park for the autumn; and there will be no visitors but us three. We shall have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Time enough to think of the autumn yet awhile,” said Marmaduke, gloomily.

“Well,” said Miss McQuinch, “here is some better news for you.

Constance — Lady Constance — will be in town next week.”

Marmaduke muttered something.

“I beg your pardon?” said Elinor, quickly.

“I didnt say anything.”

“I may be wrong; but I thought I heard you say ‘Hang Lady Constance!’.”

“Oh, Marmaduke!” cried Marian, affectedly. “How dare you speak so of your betrothed, sir?”

“Who says she is my betrothed?” he said, turning on her angrily.

“Why, everybody. Even Constance admits it.”

“She ought to have the manners to wait until I ask her,” he said, subsiding. “I’m not betrothed to her; and I dont intend to become so in a hurry, if I can help it. But you neednt tell your father I said so. It might get round to my governor; and then there would be a row.”

“You must marry her some day, you know,” said Elinor, maliciously.

“Must I? I shant marry at all. I’ve had enough of women.”

“Indeed? Perhaps they have had enough of you.” Marmaduke reddened. “You seem to have exhausted the joys of this world since the concert last night. Are you jealous of Mr. Conolly’s success?”

“Your by-play when you found how early it was at the end of the concert was not lost on us,” said Marian demurely. “You were going somewhere, were you not?”

“Since you are so jolly curious,” said Marmaduke, unreasonably annoyed, “I went to the theatre with Connolly; and my by-play, as you call it, simply meant my delight at finding that we could get rid of you in time to enjoy the evening.”

“With Conolly!” said Marian, interested. What kind of man is he?”

“He is nothing particular. You saw him yourself.”

“Yes. But is he well educated, and — and so forth?”

“Dont know, I’m sure. We didnt talk about mathematics and classics.”

“Well; but — do you like him?”

“I tell you I dont care a damn about him one way or the other,” said Marmaduke, rising and walking away to the window. His cousins, astonished, exchanged looks.

“Very well, Marmaduke,” said Marian softly, after a pause: “I wont tease you any more. Dont be angry.”

“You havnt teased me,” said he, coming back somewhat shamefacedly from the window. “I feel savage to-day, though there is no reason why I should not be as jolly as a shrimp. Perhaps Nelly will play some Chopin, just to soothe me. I should like to hear that polonaise again.”

“I should enjoy nothing better than taking you at your word,” said Elinor. “But I heard Mr. Lind come in, a moment ago; and he is not so fond of Chopin as you and I.”

Mr. Lind entered whilst she was speaking. He was a dignified gentleman, with delicately chiselled features and portly figure. His silky light brown hair curled naturally about his brow and set it off imposingly. His hands were white and small, with tapering fingers, and small thumbs.

“How do you do, sir?” said Marmaduke, blushing.

“Thank you: I am better than I have been.”

Marmaduke murmured congratulations, and looked at his watch as if pressed for time. “I must be off now,” he said, rising. “I was just going when you came in.”

“So soon! Well, I must not detain you, Marmaduke. I heard from your father this morning. He is very anxious to see you settled in life.”

“I suppose I shall shake down some day, sir.”

“You have very good opportunities — very exceptional opportunities. Has

Marian told you that Constance is expected to arrive in town next week?”

“Yes: we told him,” said Marian.

“He thought it too good to be true, and would hardly believe us,” added

Elinor.

Mr. Lind smiled at his nephew, happily forgetful, worldly wise as he was, of the inevitable conspiracy of youth against age. They smiled too, except Marmaduke, who, being under observation, kept his countenance like the Man in the Iron Mask. “It is quite true, my boy,” said the uncle, kindly. “But before she arrives, I should like to have a talk with you. When can you come to breakfast with me?”

“Any day you choose to name, sir. I shall be very glad.”

“Let us say tomorrow morning. Will that be too soon?”

“Not at all. It will suit me quite well. Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening to you.”

When Marmaduke was in the street, he stood for a while considering which way to go. Before the arrival of his uncle, he had intended to spend the afternoon with his cousins. He was now at a loss for a means of killing time. On one point he was determined. There was a rehearsal that day at the Bijou Theatre; and thither, at least, he would not go. He drove to Charing Cross, and drifted back to Leicester Square. He turned away from the theatre, and wandered down Piccadilly. Then he thought he would return as far as the Criterion, and drink. Finally he arrived at the stage door of the Bijou Theatre, and inquired whether the rehearsal was over.

“Theyve bin at it since eleven this mornin, and will be pretty nigh til the stage is wanted for tonight,” said the janitor. “I’d as lief youd wait here as go up, if you dont mind, sir. The guvnor is above; and he aint in the best o’ tempers. I’ll send word up.”

Marmaduke looked round irresolutely. A great noise of tramping and singing began.

“Thats the new procession,” continued the doorkeeper. “Sixteen hextras took on for it. It’s Miss Virtue’s chance for lunch, sir: you wont have long to wait now.”

Here there was a rapid pattering of feet down the staircase. Marmaduke started, and stood biting his lips as Mademoiselle Lalage, busy, hungry, and in haste, hurried towards the door.

“Come! Come on,” she said impatiently to him, as she went out. “Go and get a cab, will you. I must have something to eat; and I have to get back sharp. Do be qu —— there goes a hansom. Hi!” She whistled shrilly, and waved her umbrella. The cab came, and was directed by Marmaduke to a restaurant in Regent Street.

“I am absolutely starving,” she said as they drove off. “I have been in since eleven this morning; and of course they only called the band for half-past. They are such damned fools: they drive me mad.”

“Why dont you walk out of the theatre, and make them arrange it properly for next day?”

“Oh yes! And throw the whole day after the half, and lose my rehearsal.

It is bad enough to lose my temper. I swore, I can tell you.”

“I have no doubt you did.”

“This horse thinks he’s at a funeral. What o’clock is it?”

“It’s only eight minutes past four. There is plenty of time.”

When they alighted, Lalage hurried into the restaurant; scrutinized the tables; and selected the best lighted one. The waiter, a decorous elderly man, approached with some severity of manner, and handed a bill of fare to Marmaduke. She snatched it from him, and addressed the waiter sharply.

“Bring me some thin soup; and get me a steak to follow. Let it be a thick juicy one. If its purple and raw I wont have it; and if its done to a cinder, I wont have it: it must be red. And get me some spring cabbage and potatoes, and a pint of dry champagne — the decentest you have. And be quick.”

“And what for you, sir?” said the waiter, turning to Marmaduke.

“Never mind him,” interrupted Susanna. “Go and attend to me.”

The waiter bowed and retired.

“Old stickin-the-mud!” muttered Miss Lalage. “Is it half-past four yet?”

“No. It’s only quarter past. There’s lots of time.”

Mademoiselle Lalage ate until the soup, a good deal of bread, the steak, the vegetables, and the pint of champagne — less a glassful taken by her companion — had disappeared. Marmaduke watched her meanwhile, and consumed two ices.

“Have an ice to finish up with?” he said.

“No. I cant work on sweets,” she replied. “But I am beginning to feel alive again and comfortable. Whats the time?”

“Confound the time!” said Marmaduke. “It’s twenty minutes to five.”

“Well, I’ll drive back to the theatre. I neednt start for quarter of an hour yet.”

“Thank heaven!” said Marmaduke. “I was afraid I should not be able to get a word with you.”

“That reminds me of a crow I have to pluck with you, Mr. Marmaduke Lind.

What did you mean by telling me your name was Sharp?”

“It’s the name of a cousin of mine,” said Marmaduke, attempting to dismiss the subject with a laugh.

“It may be your cousin’s name; but it’s not yours. By the bye, is that the cousin youre engaged to?”

“What cousin? I’m not engaged to anybody.”

“That’s a lie, like your denial of your name. Come, come, Master Marmaduke: you cant humbug me. Youre too young. Hallo! What do you want?”

It was the waiter, removing some plates, and placing a bill on the table. Marmaduke put his hand into his pocket.

“Just wait a minute, please,” said Susanna. The waiter retired.

“Now then,” she resumed, placing her elbows on the table, “let us have no more nonsense. What is your little game? Are you going to pay that bill or am I?”

“I am, of course.”

“There is no of course in it — not yet, anyhow. What are you hanging about the theatre after me for? Tell me that. Dont stop to think.”

Marmaduke looked foolish, and then sulky. Finally he brightened, and said, “Look here. Youre angry with me for bringing your brother last night. But upon my soul I had no idea—”

“That’s not what I mean at all. You are dodging a plain question. When you came to the theatre, I thought you were a nice fellow; and I made friends with you. Now I find you have been telling me lies about yourself, and trying to play fast and loose. You must either give that up or give me up. I wont have you pass that stage door again if you only want to amuse yourself like other lounging cads about town.”

“What do you mean by playing fast and loose, and being a cad about town?” said Marmaduke angrily.

“I hope youre not going to make a row here in public.”

“No; but I have you where you cant make a row; and I intend to have it out with you once and for all. If you quarrel now, so help me Heaven I’ll never speak to you again!”

“It is you who are quarrelling.”

“Very well,” said Susanna, opening her purse as though the matter were decided. “Waiter.”

“I am going to pay.”

“So you can — for what you had yourself. I dont take dinners from strange men, nor pay for their ices.”

Marmaduke did not reply. He took out his purse determinedly; glanced angrily at her; and muttered, “I never thought you were that sort of woman.”

“What sort of woman?” demanded Susanna, in a tone that made the other occupants of the room turn and stare.

“Never mind,” said Marmaduke. She was about to retort, when she saw him looking into his purse with an expression of dismay. The waiter came. Susanna, instead of attempting to be beforehand in proffering the money, changed her mind, and waited. Marmaduke searched his pockets. Finding nothing, he muttered an imprecation, and, fingering his watch chain, glanced doubtfully at the waiter, who looked stolidly at the tablecloth.

“There,” said Susanna, putting down a sovereign.

Marmaduke looked on helplessly whilst the waiter changed the coin and thanked Susanna for her gratuity. Then he said, “You must let me settle with you for this tonight. Ive left nearly all my cash in the pocket of another waistcoat.”

“You will not have the chance of settling with me, either tonight or any other night. I am done with you.” And she rose and left the restaurant. Marmaduke sat doggedly for quarter of a minute. Then he went out, and ran along Regent Street, anxiously looking from face to face in search of her. At last he saw her walking at a great pace a little distance ahead of him. He made a dash and overtook her.

“Look here, Lalage,” he said, keeping up with her as she walked: “this is all rot. I didnt mean to offend you. I dont know what you mean, or what you want me to do. Dont be so unreasonable.”

No answer.

“I can stand a good deal from you; but it’s too much to be kept at your heels as if I were a beggar or a troublesome dog. Lalage.” She took no notice of him; and he stopped, trying to compose his features, which were distorted by rage. She walked on, turning into Glasshouse Street. When she had gone twenty yards, she heard him striding behind her.

“If you wont stop and talk to me,” he said, “I’ll make you. If anybody interferes with me I’ll smash him into jelly. It would serve you right if I did the same to you.”

He put his hand on her arm; and she instantly turned and struck him across the face, knocking off his hat. He, who a moment before had been excited, red, and almost in tears, was appalled. There was a crowd in a moment; and a cabman drew up close to the kerb with a calm conviction that his hansom would be wanted presently.

“How dare you put your hand on me, you coward?” she exclaimed, with remarkable crispness of utterance and energy of style. “Who are you? I dont know you. Where are the police?” She paused for a reply; and a bracelet, broken by the blow she had given him, dropped on the pavement, and was officiously picked up and handed to her by a battered old woman who shewed in every wrinkle her burning sympathy with Woman turning at bay against Man. Susanna looked at the broken bracelet, and tears of vexation sprang to her eyes. “Look at what youve done!” she cried, holding out the bracelet in her left hand and shewing a scrape which had drawn blood on her right wrist. “For two pins I’d knock your head off!”

Marmaduke, quite out of countenance, and yet sullenly very angry, vacillated for a moment between his conflicting impulses to knock her down and to fly to the utmost ends of the earth. If he had been ten years older he would probably have knocked her down: as it was, he signed to the cabman, who gathered up the reins and held them clear of his fare’s damaged hat with the gratification of a man whose judgment in a delicate matter had just been signally confirmed by events.

As they started, Susanna made a dash at the cab, which was pulled up, amid a shout from the crowd, just in time to prevent an accident. Then, holding on to the rail and standing on the step, she addressed herself to the cabman, and, sacrificing all propriety of language to intensity of vituperation, demanded whether he wanted to run his cab over her body and kill her. He, with undisturbed foresight, answered not a word, but again shifted the reins so as to make way for her bonnet. Acknowledging the attention with one more epithet, she seated herself in the cab, from which Marmaduke at once indignantly rose to escape. But the hardiest Grasmere wrestler, stooping under the hood of a hansom, could not resist a vigorous pull at his coat tails; and Marmaduke was presently back in his seat again, with Susanna clinging to him and half sobbing:

“Oh, Bob, youve killed me. How could you?” Then, with a suspiciously sudden recovery of energy, she screamed “Bijou Theatre. Drive on, will you” up at the cabman, who was looking down through the trapdoor. The horse plunged forward, and, with the jolt, she was fawning on Marmaduke’s arm again, saying, “Dont be brutal to me any more, Bob. I cant bear it. I have enough trouble without your turning on me.”

He was young and green, and too much confused by this time to feel sure that he had not been the aggressor. But he did, on the whole, the wisest thing — folded his arms and sat silent, with his cheeks burning.

“Say something to me,” she said, shaking his arm. “I have nothing to say,” he replied. “I shall leave town for home tonight. I cant shew my face again after this.”

“Home,” she said, in her former contemptuous tone, flinging his arm away. “That means your cousin Constance.”

“Who told you about her?”

“Never mind. You are engaged to her.”

“You lie!”

Susanna was shaken. She looked hard at him, wondering whether he was deceiving her or not. “Look me in the face, Bob,” she said. If he had complied, she would not have believed him. But he treated the challenge with supreme disdain and stared straight ahead, obeying his male instinct, which taught him that the woman, with all the advantages on her side, would nevertheless let him win if he held on. At last she came caressingly to his shoulder again, and said:

“Why didnt you tell me about her yourself?”

“Damn it all,” he exclaimed, violently, “there is nothing to tell! I am not engaged to her: on my oath I am not. My people at home talk about a match between us as if it were a settled thing, though they know I dont care for her. But if you want to have the truth, I cant afford to say that I wont marry her, because I am too hard up to quarrel with the governor, who has set his heart on it. You see, the way I am circumstanced — —”

“Oh, bother your circumstances! Look here, Bob, I dont want you to introduce me to your swell relations; it is not worth my while to waste time on people who cant earn their own living. And never mind your governor: we can get on without him. If you are hard up for money, and he is stingy, you had better get it from me than from the Jews.”

“I couldnt do that,” said Marmaduke, touched. “In fact, I am well enough off. By the bye, I must not forget to pay you for that lunch. But if I ever am hard up, I will come to you. Will that do?”

“Of course: that is what I meant. Confound it, here we are already. You mustnt come in, you would only be in the way. Come tonight after the burlesque, if you like. Youre not angry with me, are you?”

Her breast touched his arm just then; and as if she had released some spring, all his love for her suddenly surged up within him and got the better of him. “Wait — listen,” he said, in a voice half choked with tenderness. “Look here, Lalage: the honest truth is that I shall be ruined if I marry you openly. Let us be married quietly, and keep it dark until I am more independent.”

“Married! Catch me at it — if you can. No, dear boy, I am very fond of you, and you are one of the right sort to make me the offer; but I wont let you put a collar round my neck. Matrimony is all very fine for women who have no better way of supporting themselves, but it wouldnt suit me. Dont look so dazed. What difference does it make to you?”

“But — —” He stopped, bewildered, gazing at her.

“Get out, you great goose!” she said, and suddenly sprang out of the hansom and darted into the theatre.

He sat gaping after her, horrified — genuinely horrified.