"Really, Marmaduke," said Marian, impatiently, "you are excessively
foolish. You are like a boy fresh from school."

Marmaduke, taken aback by her sharp tone, gave a long whispered whistle,
and pretended to hide under the table. He had a certain gift of drollery
which made it difficult not to laugh even at his most foolish antics,
and Marian was giving way in spite of herself when she found Douglas
bending over her and saying, in a low voice:

"You are tired of this place. The room is very draughty: I fear it will
give you cold. Let me drive you home now. An apology can be made for
whatever else you are supposed to do for these people. Let me get your
cloak and call a cab."

Marian laughed. "Thank you, Sholto," she said; "but I assure you I am
quite happy. Pray do not look offended because I am not so uncomfortable
as you think I ought to be."

"I am glad you are happy," said Douglas in his former cold tone.
"Perhaps my presence is rather a drawback to your enjoyment than
otherwise."

"I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourself
to the circumstances, and be agreeable?"

"I am not conscious of being disagreeable."

"I did not mean that. Only I do not like to see you making an enemy of
every one in the room, and forcing me to say things that I know must
hurt you."

"To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent,
Marian. To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in the
mood to be lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject is
hardly worth pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shall
gratify you by withdrawing?"

"Yes," said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him.
Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, "Do not try again
to browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto."

Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinch
reappeared.

"Well, Nelly," said Marmaduke: "is there any piano left?"

"Not much," she replied, with a sullen laugh. "I never played worse in
my life."

"Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?"

"Both."

"I believe your song comes next," said the clergyman to Conolly, who had
been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch's performance.

"Who is to accompany me, sir?"

"Oh--ah--Miss McQuinch will, I am sure," replied the Rev. Mr. Lind,
smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to
closed her lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled.

"Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment," said the
clergyman, weakly.

Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, "I can do only one thing at
a time, sir."

"Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen," said the
clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very
perceptible nudge.

"I'll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman myself," said
Conolly. "I had rather leave the song out than accompany myself."

"Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind," said Miss
McQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; "but I have disgraced
myself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the song
if I played the accompaniment."

"I think you might try, Nell," said Marmaduke, reproachfully.

"I might," retorted Miss McQuinch; "but I wont."

"If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy,"
said Marmaduke.

Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. "I am a very indifferent
player," she said; "but since no better is to be had, I will venture--if
Mr. Conolly will trust me."

Conolly bowed.

"If you would rather not," said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, "I
will try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong."

"I think Miss McQuinch had better play," said Douglas.

Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to the
platform with her without further ado. She was not a sympathetic
accompanist; but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it.
She felt too that she was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lesson
in courtesy which might stand him in stead when he next accompanied
"Rose, softly blooming." She was a little taken aback on finding that he
not only had a rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge,
an accomplished singer.

"Really," she said as they left the platform, "you sing most
beautifully."

"One would hardly have expected it," he said, with a smile.

Marian, annoyed at having this side of her compliment exposed, did not
return the smile, and went to her chair in the green-room without taking
any further notice of him.

"I congratulate you," said Mrs. Leith Fairfax to Conolly, looking at
him, like all the rest except Douglas, with a marked access of interest.
"Ah! what wonderful depth there is in Gounod's music!"

He assented politely with a movement of his head.

"I know nothing at all about music," said Mrs. Fairfax.

"Very few people do."

"I mean technically, of course," she said, not quite pleased.

"Of course."

A tremendous burst of applause here followed the conclusion of the first
verse of "Uncle Ned."

"_Do_ come and listen, Nelly," said Marian, returning to the door. Mrs.
Fairfax and Conolly presently went to the door too.

"Would you not like to help in the chorus, Nelly?" said Marian in a low
voice, as the audience began to join uproariously in the refrain.

"Not particularly," said Miss McQuinch.

"Sholto," said Marian, "come and share our vulgar joy. We want you to
join in the chorus."

"Thank you," said Douglas, "I fear I am too indifferent a vocalist to do
justice to the occasion."

"Sing with Mr. Conolly and you cannot go wrong," said Miss McQuinch.

"Hush," said Marian, interposing quickly lest Douglas should retort.
"There is the chorus. Shall we really join?"

Conolly struck up the refrain without further hesitation. Marian sang
with him. Mrs. Fairfax and the clergyman looked furtively at one
another, but forbore to swell the chorus. Miss McQuinch sang a few words
in a piercing contralto voice, and then stopped with a gesture of
impatience, feeling that she was out of tune. Marian, with only Conolly
to keep her in countenance, felt relieved when Marmaduke, thrice
encored, entered the room in triumph. Whilst he was being
congratulated, Douglas turned to Miss McQuinch, who was pretending to
ignore Marmaduke's success.

"I hope, Miss McQuinch," he said in a low tone, "that you will be able
to relieve Marian at the piano next time. You know how she dislikes
having to play accompaniments for strangers."

"How mean it is of you to be jealous of a plumber!" said Miss McQuinch,
with a quick glance at him which she did not dare to sustain, so
fiercely did he return it.

When she looked again, he seemed unconscious of her presence, and was
buttoning his overcoat.

"Really going at last, Sholto?" said Marian. Douglas bowed.

"I told you you wouldnt be able to stand it, old man," said Marmaduke.
"Mrs. Bluestockings wont be pleased with you for not staying to hear her
recite." This referred to Mrs. Fairfax, who had just gone upon the
platform.

"Good night," said Miss McQuinch, shortly, anxious to test how far he
was offended, but unwilling to appear solicitous for a reconciliation.

"Until to-morrow, farewell," he said, approaching Marian, who gave him
her hand with a smile: Conolly looking thoughtfully at him meanwhile. He
left the room; and so, Mrs. Fairfax having gone to the platform to
recite, quiet prevailed for a few minutes.

"Shall I have the pleasure of playing the accompaniment to your next
song?" said Conolly, sitting down near Marian.

"Thank you," said Marian, shrinking a little: "I think Miss McQuinch
knows it by heart." Then, still anxious to be affable to the workman,
she added, "Lord Jasper says you are a great musician."

"No, I am an electrician. Music is not my business: it is my amusement."

"You have invented something very wonderful, have you not?"

"I have discovered something, and I am trying to invent a means of
turning it to account. It will be only a cheap electro-motor if it comes
to anything."

"You must explain that to me some day, Mr. Conolly. I'm afraid I dont
know what an electro-motor means."

"I ought not to have mentioned it," said Conolly. "It is so constantly
in my mind that I am easily led to talk about it. I try to prevent
myself, but the very effort makes me think of it more than ever."

"But I like to hear you talk about it," said Marian. "I always try to
make people talk shop to me, and of course they always repay me by
trying to keep on indifferent topics, of which I know as much--or as
little--as they."

"Well, then," said Conolly, "an electro-motor is only an engine for
driving machinery, just like a steam engine, except that it is worked by
electricity instead of steam. Electric engines are so imperfect now that
steam ones come cheaper. The man who finds out how to make the electric
engine do what the steam engine now does, and do it cheaper, will make
his fortune if he has his wits about him. Thats what I am driving at."

Miss Lind, in spite of her sensible views as to talking shop, was not
interested in the least. "Indeed!" she said. "How interesting that must
be! But how did you find time to become so perfect a musician, and to
sing so exquisitely?"

"I picked most of it up when I was a boy. My grandfather was an Irish
sailor with such a tremendous voice that a Neapolitan music master
brought him out in opera as a _buffo_. When he had roared his voice
away, he went into the chorus. My father was reared in Italy, and looked
more Italian than most genuine natives. He had no voice; so he became
first accompanist, then chorus master, and finally trainer for the
operatic stage. He speculated in an American tour; married out there;
lost all his money; and came over to England, when I was only twelve, to
resume his business at Covent Garden. I stayed in America, and was
apprenticed to an electrical engineer. I worked at the bench there for
six years."

"I suppose your father taught you to sing."

"No. He never gave me a lesson. The fact is, Miss Lind, he was a capital
man to teach stage tricks and traditional renderings of old operas; but
only the exceptionally powerful voices survived his method of teaching.
He would have finished my career as a singer in two months if he had
troubled himself to teach me. Never go to Italy to learn singing."

"I fear you are a cynic. You ought either to believe in your father or
else be silent about him."

"Why?"

"Why! Surely we should hide the failings of those we love? I can
understand now how your musical and electrical tastes became mixed up;
but you should not confuse your duties. But please excuse me:"
(Conolly's eyes had opened a little wider) "I am lecturing you, without
the least right to. It is a failing of mine which you must not mind."

"Not at all. Youve a right to your opinion. But the world would never
get on if every practical man were to stand by his father's mistakes.
However, I brought it on myself by telling you a long story. This is the
first opportunity I ever had of talking about myself to a lady, and I
suppose I have abused it."

Marian laughed. "We had better stop apologizing to one another," she
said. "What about the accompaniments to our next songs?"

Meanwhile Marmaduke and Miss McQuinch were becoming curious about Marian
and Conolly.

"I say, Nelly," he whispered, "Marian and that young man seem to be
getting on uncommonly well together. She looks sentimentally happy, and
he seems pleased with himself. Dont you feel jealous?"

"Jealous! Why should I be?"

"Out of pure cussedness. Not that you care for the electric man, but
because you hate any one to fall in love with any one else when you are
by."

"I wish you would go away."

"Why? Dont you like me?"

"I _loathe_ you. Now, perhaps you understand me."

"That's a nice sort of thing to say to a fellow," said Marmaduke,
roused. "I have a great mind to bring you to your senses as Douglas
does, by not speaking to you for a week."

"I wish you would let me come to my senses by not speaking to me at
all."

"Oh! Well, I am off; but mind, Nelly, I am offended. We are no longer on
speaking terms. Look as contemptuous as you please: you will be sorry
when you think over this. Remember: you said you loathed me."

"So I do," said Elinor, stubbornly.

"Very good," said Marmaduke, turning his back on her. Just then the
concertinists returned from the platform, and a waiter appeared with
refreshments, which the clergyman invited Marmaduke to assist him in
dispensing. Conolly, considering the uncorking of bottles of soda water
a sufficiently skilled labor to be more interesting than making small
talk, went to the table and busied himself with the corkscrew.

"Well, Nelly," said Marian, drawing her chair close to Miss McQuinch,
and speaking in a low voice, "what do you think of Jasper's workman?"

"Not much," replied Elinor, shrugging her shoulders. "He is very
conceited, and very coarse."

"Do you really think so? I expected to find you delighted with his
unconventionality. I thought him rather amusing."

"I thought him extremely aggravating. I hate to have to speak to people
of that sort."

"Then you consider him vulgar," said Marian, disappointed.

"N--no. Not vulgarer than anybody else. He couldnt be that."

"Sherry and soda, Marian?" said Marmaduke, approaching.

"No, thank you, Marmaduke. Get Nelly something."

"As Miss McQuinch and I are no longer on speaking terms, I leave her to
the care of yonder scientific amateur, who has just refused, on teetotal
grounds, to pledge the Rev. George in a glass of eighteen shilling
sherry."

"Dont be silly, Marmaduke. Bring Nelly some soda water."

"Do nothing of the sort," said Miss McQuinch.

Marmaduke bowed and retired.

"What is the matter between you and Duke now?" said Marian.

"Nothing. I told him I loathed him."

"Oh! I dont wonder at his being a little huffed. How _can_ you say
things you dont mean?"

"I do mean them. What with his folly, Sholto's mean conceit, George's
hypocrisy, that man's vulgarity, Mrs. Fairfax's affectation, your
insufferable amiability, and the dreariness of those concertina people,
I feel so wretched that I could find it in my heart to loathe anybody
and everybody."

"Nonsense, Nelly! You are only in the blues."

"_Only_ in the blues!" said Miss McQuinch sarcastically. "Yes. That is
all."

"Take some sherry. It will brighten you up."

"Dutch courage! Thank you: I prefer my present moroseness."

"But you are not morose, Nelly."

"Oh, stuff, Marian! Dont throw away your amiability on me. Here comes
your new friend with refreshments. I wonder was he ever a waiter? He
looks exactly like one."

After this the conversation flagged. Mrs. Fairfax grew loquacious under
the influence of sherry, but presently a reaction set in, and she began
to yawn. Miss McQuinch, when her turn came, played worse than before,
and the audience, longing for another negro melody, paid little
attention to her. Marian sang a religious song, which was received with
the respect usually accorded to a dull sermon. The clergyman read a
comic essay of his own composition, and Mrs. Fairfax recited an ode to
Mazzini. The concertinists played an arrangement of a quartet by Onslow.
The working men and women of Wandsworth gaped, and those who sat near
the door began to slip out. Even Miss McQuinch pitied them.

"The idea of expecting them to be grateful for an infliction like
that!" she said. "What do people of their class care about Onslow's
quartets?"

"Do you think that people of any class, high or low, would be gratified
by such an entertainment?" said Conolly, with some warmth. No one had
sufficient spirit left to reply.

At last the concertinists went home, and the reading drew to a close.
Conolly, again accompanied by Marian, sang "Tom Bowling." The audience
awoke, cheered the singer heartily, and made him sing again. On his
return to the green-room, Miss McQuinch, much affected at the fate of
Bowling, and indignant with herself for being so, stared defiantly at
Conolly through a film of tears. When Marmaduke went out, the people
also were so moved that they were ripe for laughter, and with roars of
merriment forced him to sing three songs, in the choruses of which they
joined. Eventually the clergyman had to bid them go home, as Mr. Lind
had given them all the songs he knew.

"I suppose you will not come with us, Duke," said Marian, when all was
over, and they were preparing to leave. "We can drop you at your
chambers if you like; but you will have to sit on the box. Mrs. Leith
Fairfax, George, Nelly, and I, will be a carriageful."

Marmaduke looked at his watch. "By Jove!" he cried, "it is only ten. I
forgot how early we began to-night. No thank you, Marian: I am not going
your way; but you may take the banjo and keep it until I call. Ta ta!"

They all went out together; and the ladies, followed by the clergyman,
entered their carriage and drove away, leaving Marmaduke and Conolly
standing on the pavement. Having shared the success of the concert,
each felt well disposed to the other.

"What direction are you going in?" said Marmaduke.

"Westminster Bridge or thereabouts," replied Conolly. "This place is
rather out of the way."

"Have you anything particular to do before you turn in for the night?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, old man. Lets take a hansom, and drive
off to the Bijou. We shall just be in time to see Lalage Virtue in the
burlesque; and--look here! I'll introduce you to her: youre just the
sort of chap she would like to know. Eh?"

Conolly looked at him, nodded, and burst out laughing. Marmaduke, who
had set him down as a cool, undemonstrative man, was surprised at his
hilarity for a moment, but presently joined in it. Whilst they were both
laughing a hansom appeared, and Conolly, recovering himself, hailed the
driver.

"We shall get on together, I see," said Marmaduke, jumping into the cab.
"Hallo! The Bijou Theatre, Soho, and drive as fast as you can afford to
for half a sovereign."

"Right you are, sir," replied the driver, whipping his horse.

The rattling of the cab silenced Conolly; but his companion persisted
for some time in describing the burlesque to which they were going, and
particularly the attractions of Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, who enacted
a principal character therein, and with whom he seemed to be in love.
When they alighted at the theatre Marmaduke payed the cabman, and
Conolly took advantage of this to enter the theatre and purchase two
stall tickets, an arrangement which Lind, suddenly recollecting his new
friend's position, disapproved of, but found it useless to protest
against. He forgot it on hearing the voice of Lalage Virtue, who was at
that moment singing within; and he went to his stall with his eyes
turned to the stage, treading on toes and stumbling as children commonly
do when they walk in one direction and look in another. An attendant,
who seemed to know him, proffered a glass for hire. He took it, and
leveled it at Mademoiselle Lalage, who was singing some trivial couplets
much better than they deserved. Catching sight of him presently, she
greeted him with a flash of her dark eye that made him writhe as though
his heart had received a fillip from a ponderable missile. She did not
spare these roguish glances. They darted everywhere; and Conolly,
looking about him to note their effect, saw rows of callow young faces
with parted lips and an expression which seemed to have been caught and
fixed at the climax of a blissful chuckle. There were few women in the
stalls, and the silly young faces were relieved only by stupid old ones.

The couplets ended amidst great applause. Marmaduke placed his glass on
his knees, and, clapping his hands vigorously, turned to his companion
with a triumphant smile, mutely inviting him to clamor for a repetition
of the air. But Conolly sat motionless, with his arms folded, his cheek
flushed, and his brow lowered.

"You dont seem used to this sort of thing," said Lind, somewhat
disgusted.

"It was well sung," replied Conolly "--better than most of these
blackguards know."

"Then why dont you clap?"

"Because she is not giving herself any trouble. That sort of thing,
from a woman of her talent, is too cheap to say 'thank you' for."

Marmaduke looked at him, and began to think that he was a priggish
fellow after all. But as the burlesque went on, Mademoiselle Lalage
charmed away this disagreeable impression. She warbled in an amorous
duet, and then sang the pleasures of champagne; tossing her head; waving
a gilt goblet; and, without the least appearance of effort, working hard
to captivate those who were to be won by bold smiles and arch glances.
She displayed her person less freely than her colleagues, being, not
more modest, but more skilful in the art of seduction. The slang that
served for dialogue in her part was delivered in all sorts of
intonations, now demure and mischievous, anon strident and mock tragic.
Marmaduke was delighted.

"What I like about her is that she is such a genuine little lady," he
said, as her exit released his attention. "With all her go, she is never
a bit vulgar. Off the stage she is just the same. Not a spark of
affectation about her. It is all natural."

"You know her, then?" said Conolly.

"I should think I do," replied Marmaduke, energetically. "You have no
idea what a rattling sort she is."

"To you, who only see her occasionally, no doubt she gives--as a
rattling sort--a heightened charm to the order, the refinement, the--the
beauty of the home life which you can enjoy. Excuse my introducing such
a subject, Mr. Lind; but would you bring your cousin--the lady who sang
to-night at the concert--to see this performance?"

"I would if she asked me to," said Marmaduke, somewhat taken aback.

"No doubt. But should you be surprised if she asked you?"

"Not a bit. Fine ladies are neither such fools nor such angels as
you--as some fellows think. Miss Lind's notion is to see everything. And
yet she is a thoroughly nice woman too. It is the same with Lalage
there. She is not squeamish, and she is full of fun; but she knows as
well as anybody how to pull up a man who doesnt behave himself."

"And you actually think that this Lalage Virtue is as respectable a
woman as your cousin?"

"Oh, I dont bother myself about it. I shouldnt have thought of comparing
them if you hadnt started the idea. Marian's way is not the other one's
way, and each of them is all right in her own way. Look here. I'll
introduce you to Lalage. We can pick up somebody else to make a party
for you, and finish with a supper at Jellicoe's."

"Are you privileged to introduce whom you like to Miss Lalage?"

"Well, as to that, she doesnt stand much on ceremony; but then, you see,
that cuts two ways. The mere introducing is no difficulty; but it
depends on the man himself whether he gets snubbed afterward or not. By
the bye, you must understand, if you dont know it already, that Lalage
is as correct in her morals as a bishop's wife. I just tell you, because
some fellows seem to think that a woman who goes on the stage leaves her
propriety behind as a matter of course. In fact, I rather thought so
myself once. Not that you wont find loose women there as well as
anywhere else, if you want to. But dont take it for granted, that's
all."

"Well," said Conolly, "you may introduce me, and we can consider the
supper afterwards. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you obtained your
own introduction? You dont, I suppose, move in the same circle as she;
and if she is as particular as your own people, she can hardly form
promiscuous acquaintanceships."

"A man at the point of death does not stop to think about etiquet. She
saved my life."

"Saved your life! That sounds romantic."

"There was precious little romance about it, though I owe my being alive
now to her presence of mind. It happened in the rummest way. I was
brought behind the scenes one night by a Cambridge chum. We were
painting the town a bit red. We were not exactly drunk; but we were not
particularly sober either; and I was very green at that time, and made a
fool of myself about Lalage: staring; clapping like a madman in the
middle of her songs; getting into the way of everybody and everything,
and so on. Then a couple of fellows we knew turned up, and we got
chatting at the wing with some girls. At last a fellow came in with a
bag of cherries; and we began trying that old trick--you know--taking
the end of a stalk between your lips and drawing the cherry into the
mouth without touching it with your hand, you know. I tried it; and I
was just getting the cherry into my mouth when some idiot gave me a
drive in the waistcoat. I made a gulp; and the cherry stuck fast in my
throat. I began to choke. Nobody knew what to do; and while they were
pushing me about, some thinking I was only pretending, the girls
beginning to get frightened, and the rest shouting at me to swallow the
confounded thing, I was getting black in the face, and my head was
bursting: I could see nothing but red spots. It was a near thing, I tell
you. Suddenly I got a shake; and then a little fist gave me a stunning
thump on the back, that made the cherry bounce out against my palate. I
gasped and coughed like a grampus: the stalk was down my throat still.
Then the little hand grabbed my throat and made me open my mouth wide;
and the cherry was pulled out, stalk and all. It was Lalage who did this
while the rest were gaping helplessly. I dont remember what followed. I
thought I had fainted; but it appears that I nearly cried, and talked
the most awful nonsense to her. I suppose the choking made me
hysterical. However, I distinctly recollect the stage manager bullying
the girls, and turning us all out. I was very angry with myself for
being childish, as they told me I had been; and when I got back to
Cambridge I actually took to reading. A few months afterward I made
another trip to town, and went behind the scenes again. She recognized
me, and chaffed me about the cherry. I jumped at my chance; I improved
the acquaintance; and now I know her pretty well."

"You doubt whether any of the ladies that were with us at the concert
would have been equally useful in such an emergency?"

"I should think I do doubt it, my boy. Hush! Now that the ballet is
over, we are annoying people by talking."

"You are right," replied Conolly. "Aha! Here is Miss Lalage again."

Marmaduke raised his opera-glass to his eyes, eager for another smile
from the actress. He seemed about to be gratified; for her glance was
travelling toward him along the row of stalls. But it was arrested by
Conolly, on whom she looked with perceptible surprise and dismay. Lind,
puzzled, turned toward his companion, and found him smiling maliciously
at Mademoiselle Lalage, who recovered her vivacity with an effort, and
continued her part with more nervousness than he had ever seen her
display before.

Shortly before the curtain fell, they left the theatre, and re-entered
it by the stage door.

"Queer place, isnt it?" said Lind.

Conolly nodded, but went forward like one well accustomed to the dingy
labyrinth of old-fashioned stages. Presently they came upon Lalage. She
was much heated by her exertions, thickly painted, and very angry.

"Well?" she said quarrelsomely.

Marmaduke, perceiving that her challenge was not addressed to him, but
to Conolly, looked from one to the other, mystified.

"I have come to see you act at last," said Conolly.

"You might have told me you were coming. I could have got you a stall,
although I suppose you would have preferred to throw away your money
like a fool."

"I must admit, my dear," said Conolly, "that I could have spent it to
much greater advantage."

"Indeed! and you!" she said, turning to Lind, whose deepening color
betrayed his growing mortification: "what is the matter with _you_?"

"I have played a trick on your friend," said Conolly. "He suggested this
visit; and I did not tell him of the relation between us. Finding us on
terms of familiarity, if not of affection, he is naturally surprised."

"As I have never tried to meddle with your private affairs," said
Marmaduke to Lalage, "I need not apologize for not knowing your husband.
But I regret----"

The actress laughed in spite of her vexation. "Why, you silly old
thing!" she exclaimed, "he is no more my husband than you are!"

"Oh!" said Marmaduke. "Indeed!"

"I am her brother," said Conolly considerately, stifling a smile.

"Why," said Mademoiselle Lalage fiercely, raising her voice, "what else
did you think?"

"Hush," said Conolly, "we are talking too much in this crowd. You had
better change your dress, Susanna, and then we can settle what to do
next."

"You can settle what you please," she replied. "I am going home."

"Mr. Lind has suggested our supping together," said Conolly, observing
her curiously.

Susanna looked quickly at them.

"Who is Mr. Lind?" she said.

"Your friend, of course," said Conolly, with an answering flash of
intelligence that brought out the resemblance between them startlingly.
"Mr. Marmaduke Lind."

Marmaduke became very red as they both waited for him to explain.

"I thought that you would perhaps join us at supper," he said to
Susanna.

"Did you?" she said, threateningly. Then she turned her back on him and
went to her dressing-room.

"Well, Mr. Lind," said Conolly, "what do you think of Mademoiselle
Lalage now?"

"I think her annoyance is very natural," said Marmaduke, gloomily. "No
doubt you are right to take care of your sister, but you are very much
mistaken if you think I meant to act badly toward her."

"It is no part of my duty to take care of her," said Conolly,
seriously. "She is her own guardian, and she has never been encouraged
to suppose that her responsibility lies with any one but herself."

"It doesnt matter now," said Marmaduke; "for I intend never to speak to
her again."

Conolly laughed. "However that may turn out," he said, "we are evidently
not in the mood for further conviviality, so let us postpone the supper
to some other occasion. May I advise you not to wait until Susanna
returns. There is no chance of a reconciliation to-night."

"I dont want any reconciliation."

"Of course not; I had forgotten," replied Conolly, placably. "Then I
suppose you will go before she has finished dressing."

"I shall go now," said Marmaduke, buttoning his overcoat, and turning
away.

"Good-night," said Conolly.

"Good-night," muttered Marmaduke, petulantly, and disappeared.

Conolly waited a moment, so that he might not overtake Lind. He then
went for a cab, and waited at the stage door until his sister came down,
frowning. She got into the hansom without a word.

"Why dont you have a brougham, instead of going about in cabs?" he said,
as they drove away.

"Because I like a hansom better than a brougham; and I had rather pay
four shillings a night and travel comfortably, than thirteen and be half
suffocated."

"I thought the appearance of----"

"There is no use in your talking to me. I cant hear a word you say going
over these stones."

When they were alone together in their drawing-room in Lambeth, he,
after walking up and down the room a few times, and laughing softly to
himself, began to sing the couplets from the burlesque.

"Are you aware," she inquired, "that it is half past twelve, and that
the people of the house are trying to sleep."

"True," said he, desisting. "By the bye, I, too, have had my triumphs
this evening. I shared the honors of the concert with Master Lind, who
was so delighted that he insisted on bringing me off to the Bijou. He
loves you to distraction, poor devil!"

"Yes: you made a nice piece of mischief there. Where is he?"

"Gone away in a rage, swearing never to speak to you again."

"Hm! And so his name is Lind, is it?"

"Didnt you know?"

"No, or I should have told you when I read the program this evening. The
young villain pretended that his name was Marmaduke Sharp."

"Ah! The name reminds me of one of his cousins, a little spitfire that
snaps at every one who presumes to talk to her."

"His cousins! Oh, of course; you met them at the concert. What are they
like? Are they swells?"

"Yes, they seem to be. There were only two cousins, Miss McQuinch and a
young woman named Marian, blonde and rather good looking. There was a
brother of hers there, but he is only a parson, and a tall fellow named
Douglas, who made rather a fool of himself. I could not make him out
exactly."

"Did they snub you?"

"I dont know. Probably they tried. Are you intimate with many of our
young nobility under assumed names?"

"Steal a few more marches to the Bijou, and perhaps you will find out."

"Good-night! Pardon my abrupt departure, but you are not the very
sweetest of Susannas to-night."

"Oh, _good_-night."

"By the bye," said Conolly, returning, "this must be the Mr. Duke Lind
who is going to marry Lady Constance Carbury, my noble pupil's sister."

"I am sure it matters very little whom he marries."

"If he will pay us a visit here, and witness the working of perfect
frankness without affection, and perfect liberty without refinement, he
may find reason to conclude that it matters a good deal. Good-night."




CHAPTER II


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 self-control 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 drawing-room 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 drawing-room 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.