The first few days after Glynn's return to London were so crowded by important engagements and serious consultations with the elder members of his firm as to the advisability of a new and important undertaking, to which Glynn was entirely opposed, that he had no time for deliberate thought respecting Lambert and his mysterious acquaintance with Deering. Yet the subject was never quite out of his mind. A vague unreasonable anxiety about Elsie haunted him, and he was strangely eager to return to Paris.

The earliest spare moment he could find was devoted to Lady Gethin.

She was out when he called, but next morning's post brought him a pressing invitation to dinner, of which he gladly availed himself. He would have liked to take counsel with the shrewd old woman, and yet he did not think it loyal to Lambert, who evidently trusted him, to be too confidential.

Her hospitable ladyship, however, was not alone. A small, pleasant party, some writers of light literature, a traveller, a smart grass-widow from India, a clever barrister, and his pretty, accomplished daughter, to whom Glynn was already known, were assembled when he arrived, and dinner was a feast of good things in more senses than one. Afterwards there was music. The grass-widow played brilliantly, the pretty young lady sang very nicely, had a sweet voice, and had been well trained. But Glynn could only think of the contrast between her singing and Miss Lambert's; of the mellow, tender richness of the latter's notes, which seemed to come from the heart to the heart, compared with the lighter though pleasant timbre of the other,—the sweet, simple earnestness of the one, and the easy smiling surface, good breeding of the cultivated London girl.

"Don't leave till the others have gone," whispered Lady Gethin, as she passed him when following her lady guests from the dining-room.

It was the height of the season, every one had more engagements than they could well manage; the party therefore broke up early, its members dispersing to balls, concerts, or receptions.

"Now then, have a little iced seltzer and cognac, it is quite warm this evening," said Lady Gethin; "and let us have a long talk—that letter of yours whetted my curiosity. What in the world has kept you away so long? every one has been asking for you!"

"Partly business, and partly curiosity."

"What about?"

"I will tell you presently. Have you seen Lady Frances Deering lately?"

"I saw her about ten days ago; she has gone down to Denham, and Deering is off to Vichy—liver or something wrong, but he didn't look as if he had much the matter with him."

"Vichy? He is not at Vichy! I saw him in Paris the night before I left."

"Well, I suppose he must pass through Paris, but you mean something more; where, and how did you see him?"

"I saw him saying good-night to the young lady with whom he was struck at Auteuil, and whom I think I mentioned to you."

"You don't say so! That's the liver complaint, is it? and the drama into the bargain. Come now, Hugh, do be candid, and do not worry me with any attempt to heighten effect. What do you know? What have you seen? What do you suspect?"

"These are tremendously leading questions!"

"Well, I want to get at your drama as soon as possible."

"Then, I shall answer categorically. I know nothing. I have seen very little. I suspect everything."

"What a sphinx-like reply. Just go on your own way, and tell me everything you will tell, for I have an idea you will make reservations."

Whereupon Glynn described his meeting with Elsie and her father, not omitting Vincent, the curious contrast between Lambert and his daughter, the reappearance of Deering on the scene, his incongruous acquaintance with Vincent and Lambert, and the evident astonishment of each on recognizing the other. He only suppressed or softened the circumstances under which he had known Lambert, and the fact that he had changed his name. When he ceased, Lady Gethin, who had listened with profound attention, exclaimed:

"A very pretty mystery, upon my word. That Deering is a fiend! He knows something against Lambert, and is going to use his knowledge to help him with the daughter. I never liked Deering. He is a smooth-tongued, sneering hypocrite, and has many queer corners in his life, or I am much mistaken."

"I never heard anything against him, indeed he is rather liked among men. Even now I scarcely think he can be capable of any evil designs against a girl like Miss Lambert. What struck me at first, was the sort of fierce uneasy curiosity he displayed concerning her. He certainly admires her very much."

"So does some one else," returned Lady Gethin, with a knowing nod. "I trust and hope that the beautiful eyes, and lovely voice, and attractive mystery, will not draw you into making a fool of yourself."

"But, Lady Gethin!" cried Glynn, amazed at her penetration and quite unconscious how much he had betrayed, "you do not imagine that at my age I should be so weak as to be drawn into an entanglement,—a marriage, of which my judgment disapproves."

"I wouldn't give five minutes' purchase for your judgment, Hugh. You are just at the age when, if men are slower in igniting, they burn with a more intense and lasting fire. The frothiness of your enthusiasm may have evaporated, but the warm, strong spirit remains. Take care of yourself, Hugh; connection with such a man as you describe Lambert (and I fancy you have made the best of him) would be a frightful calamity,—no eyes, voice, or angelic nature could make up for it. You'd soon find that out. There is a certain degree of disenchantment in marriage, even under the most favorable circumstances. Take my advice, don't go back to Paris, let them manage their mystery themselves. You will be let in for something unpleasant and risky—don't go back."

"Oh, I must go back! I promised Lambert I would; besides, I want to see the play out; and you alarm yourself unnecessarily. I admire Miss Lambert, I think her as good as she is charming; but I am as averse to a marriage with her as you can be. Moreover, I have a safeguard in her indifference, for she treats me with frank confidence as her father's old friend, nothing more."

"This is worse and worse," said Lady Gethin, gravely. "How do you know what profound tenderness her indifferent airs may mask?"

"Do you think I have never looked into any eyes, nor learned their language, before I saw Miss Lambert's, that I should be so mistaken?" asked Glynn, laughing.

"Oh, I dare say you are learned enough in such matters. Pray be guided by me, put the Parisian episode out of your head, and make up your mind to marry that nice piquant little daughter of Pearson's. I asked them on purpose to meet you. He will give her ten thousand pounds, and he is a rising man; he will be on the bench in a year or two; they are people of good family."

"My dear Lady Gethin! I don't want to marry any one, and so I will bid you good-night. A thousand thanks for your good advice."

"Which of course you will not follow! Well, keep me informed of what goes on. I wish I could see all your people, I think I should find a key to the riddle. I never liked Deering."

"I have no doubt you could read between the lines. As to Deering, now that I am away from him, I am half ashamed of my suspicions. It is rather absurd to imagine that a man of his standing would risk his reputation for a passing whim."

"But he doesn't risk it," said Lady Gethin. "He is not infringing any social law in England; unknown, doubtful Americans, neither rich nor highly-placed, are beyond the pale. If that Lambert had any sense, he would give his daughter a little money and marry her to some solid bourgeois. He could easily arrange it, I fancy."

"Well, good-night," said Glynn, with an odd feeling of irritation. "I shall call and see you before I leave, and do not hesitate to give me any commission—my taste in gloves and even in ribbons is not to be despised."

"Take care," was her valediction.

The next day brought Glynn a few lines from Lambert, which struck him as expressing more uneasiness than was intended.

"I have no right to ask you to return if it does not suit you," he wrote, "but I hope you will. I feel in need of your counsel. I have had wonderful luck for years, and now I'm afraid it's turning. Then I am not as young or as strong as I used to be; and one way or another it would cheer me up a bit to have a talk with you."

Had Glynn had any hesitation as to revisiting Paris this letter would have decided him. He sent a few lines in reply, and then applied himself steadily to clear up all business engagements as far as possible, to secure a long holiday.

He called on Deering at his club, and was told that gentleman was travelling abroad, and that letters addressed to his town house would be forwarded. Lady Gethin was not at home to receive his adieux, but wrote him a quaint characteristic line of warning.

Having performed all his duties, Glynn found himself in the mail train for Calais one evening about a fortnight after he had left Paris, with an irrepressible sense of exultation, of keen delight at the idea of returning to what he knew in his heart was a scene of danger, determined to enjoy to the uttermost the pleasure of Elsie's companionship, so long as he saw no sign of consciousness on her part. Life had so few moments of bliss that he could not and would not deny himself the draught that chance had offered.

It was a damp, drizzling morning when he reached his journey's end. Perhaps no town changes so much with change of weather as Paris; muddy streets, wet umbrellas, heavy grey clouds disguise it completely, and give it the aspect of a beautiful coquette, in deshabille and a bad temper. As early as etiquette would permit Glynn took his way to the Rue de L'EvÊque, hoping to find Lambert, as he could not expect to gather any information from Elsie. Hailing a fiacre, he told the driver where to go, and smiled to himself at the notion of Lady Gethin's alarm, thinking that if she knew how fast his heart was beating she would resign all hope of saving him. As he approached the house Glynn saw that his driver had either forgotten or mistaken the number, and was driving past it. He had just started forward to stop him when he saw two men come out of the entrance, and turning their backs on his conveyance, walk smartly down the street in close conversation. They were Deering and Vincent. A quick thrill of pain, of anticipated evil, shot through him as he recognized them. He feared he knew not what. But above and beyond all reasoning, he felt that their companionship, their presence, were omens of trouble and of wrong.

"Stop where you are, I will descend here," he called to the driver, and was soon springing up the familiar stairs. How vividly the perfume of the orange blossoms reminded him of the surprised admiration which Elsie and her home had excited on his first visit.

"Oh! it is you, monsieur!" cried Celestine, directly she opened the door; "I will tell Madame Weber, and I am sure mademoiselle will receive you." She went into the salon, and returned almost immediately. "Enter, monsieur, but enter; mademoiselle will be pleased to see you."

Miss Lambert was alone when Glynn found himself in her presence, and sitting at a writing-table; she rose quickly, and came forward, with outstretched hands, "I am so glad you have come." Glynn did not speak immediately—he was surprised at the intensity of his own delight on finding himself once more beside her, listening to her voice, holding her hand, gazing into her eyes. He did not know he was so far gone. She looked paler, thinner, graver, than when he last saw her. She wore a black dress, and had a small scarf of delicate lace tied loosely round her throat. Her bright brown hair looked golden even in the dull light of a grey day, and there was something sad in her pose and expression that Glynn found infinitely touching.

"You knew I should return—at least your father did," he said at length.

"My father did expect you; but I—I thought it likely that when you were amongst your own friends, your own people, you would not care to leave them."

"I am afraid that you are not so well as when I left," said Glynn, drawing a chair near her writing-table, at which she had reseated herself. "It is perhaps impertinent to say that you are not looking as well, as brilliant as you were."

"Brilliant," she repeated, with a brief sweet laugh. "That I never could be; but you are right, I am ill,—ill at ease, I mean. My father. Ah!—he is so changed! And he is angry if I notice it; but he is very unhappy, I know he is. That is why I am so glad you have come; he can speak to you, he may speak to you. You may be able to help him; but I am only a helpless, ignorant girl. Yet I could do much if I were directed."

"I should be most happy to be of any use to Captain Lambert," said Glynn. "No doubt your affectionate anxiety inclines you to exaggerate, but——"

"When you see him you will understand," interrupted Elsie, "you will see that I do not exaggerate. He will not tell me what has happened. He says he has not lost his fortune. I should not care if he had, for I could earn money by singing, though not on the stage. However, my knowing would not help him, because I have always been shut up and am so ignorant. You do not mind me telling you all this, do you? Though I have not known you long, my father has, and—and—you seem like a real friend to him."

She looked full in his face, her great soft eyes all suffused with tears—like violets laden with dew.

"I am gratified that you confide in me, so far," said Glynn quietly, with laudable self-control. "I shall observe your father by the light of your remarks; and if he is really in any difficulty, or cares to consult me, I shall be most happy to assist him so far as I can. Probably his depression arises from some temporary losses. Believe me," and his dark face lit up with a pleasant smile, "money is a most important factor in existence; I am able to assert from experience that there is no vacuum so distressing as an empty pocket."

"If it is the loss of money," she returned gravely, "we ought not to stay here; life is very costly, I know; I have paid everything for the last eight months. My dear father is too generous; we ought to manage as we used when he was trying to save; he might move about as his business required, and I could go back to good Mrs. Kellett."

"Who is Mrs. Kellett?"

"My foster-mother; the only mother I have ever known: she lost her baby and her husband, and took me to love instead, at the time our place was destroyed in Australia. But, Mr. Glynn, it is more than money that disturbs my father."

"Let us hope he will speak openly to me; but I have no right to ask his confidence. Now you must not worry yourself unnecessarily. I wish it were a finer day, and I should try to persuade you and Madame Weber to come for a drive in the bois."

"Thank you, very much; I should have liked it, for I have gone out very little of late; but Madame Weber is not in the house, she went to the Halle this morning early to buy fruit, and has not returned yet."

"Then you have been dull as well as troubled. How is Madame Davilliers, and Mademoiselle Antoinette?" asked Glynn, making a circuitous approach to the topic uppermost in his mind.

"They are very well, and very busy. Antoinette is going to be married in August to M. Le Vicomte de Pontigny; it has been all arranged since you left. I should have less to regret, therefore, in leaving Paris, for Antoinette is going to travel for some time, and when she returns it will not be the same."

"This seems to have been a rapid act?"

"I dare say Monsieur Davilliers and the Vicomte had begun the treaty long ago," said Elsie, laughing; "but we only heard of the intended marriage three or four days ago."

"And Deering, he is still here?" looking keenly at her.

"Yes"; all her gravity returning. "He called this morning just before you came; I did not see him, for, it is very extraordinary, my father has turned against Mr. Vincent, who is always with Mr. Deering; that I do not mind; but though he says less about it, I think he is quite as distrustful of Mr. Deering. Now I have got over my first foolish fear of him; he is so gentle and polite, and seems to want to be friends with my father. I do not understand it all; but I never dispute what my dear father says. He knows more of life than I can possibly do. Yet I want very much to hear all about the lady Mr. Deering thinks me so like. He promised to tell me when he knew me better. Everything seems so changed since our pleasant dinner at the CafÉ de Madrid, not two months ago."

"Such days and dinners do not come often," said Glynn, with a quick sigh. "I hope all this worry does not prevent you singing as much as you used?"

"Oh, no! it is the only pleasure I have."

"Is it too presumptuous of me to ask for a song now?"

Elsie did not answer for a moment; she put her elbows on the table, clasped her hands together, and resting her cheek on her interlaced fingers, said very slowly, "No; I could not sing to-day, I should break down—the tears would come—I had better not try."

"Then I will not ask you;—but tell me, when shall I see your father?"

"He will certainly call upon you. I am not sure if he will return to dinner, or I would beg you to dine with us."

"Thank you; we will reserve that pleasure for future arrangement. I am staying as usual at the hotel Wagram, and have letters to write which will keep me in till past eleven to-morrow, should Captain Lambert feel disposed to call."

"I will tell him," said Elsie.

Then Glynn knew he ought to go; but he could not tear himself away immediately. It was so charming, this quiet confidential talk; so intoxicating to see that her pale, anxious face had brightened considerably; certainly her composure, in the midst of her depression and uneasiness, left no room for any flattering conviction that he had impressed himself upon her heart or imagination. So far all was right; she treated him as a friend, an honorable gentleman, in whom she might trust, and nothing more.

A little further talk of the books Glynn had left with her, of her wish to leave Paris, and revisit the farmhouse, where most of her childish days had been spent, and Glynn felt he must not stay longer.

"Shall you make any stay?" she asked, as she gave him her hand at parting.

"A week or two, perhaps a month; I am not sure."

"Then good-morning—au revoir."

The rest of the day was strange and dream-like. He wandered through well-known places, seeking acquaintance to draw him from the puzzle of his own thoughts, and finding none, till towards six o'clock, passing Tortoni's, he found himself face to face with Deering, who was seated at one of the little round tables eating an ice.

"Hullo, Glynn! I thought you were in London?"

"Well, you see I am in Paris."

"When did you arrive?"

"This morning."

A little ordinary talk ensued, the tone of which showed a strong desire on the part of Deering to be civil and friendly. Glynn at once determined to accept his advances; he might thus detect some indications of the secret which underlay his acquaintance with Lambert, and the curious influence he seemed to have exercised over him. He could not, however, bring himself to accept his invitation to dinner, though he agreed to dine with him at one of the luxurious cafÉs which abound in the great capital of pleasure.

Deering talked well, of many things, chiefly political; he also mentioned his wife and home, pressing Glynn to come down to Denham for the twelfth of August, promising him good sport.

It was not till they had risen from table, and were lighting their cigars previous to separating, that Deering made any mention of the subject probably uppermost in both their minds.

"Of course you have not seen anything of Lambert?"

"No, not yet."

"He is a queer fish—a very shady member. I knew him under another name, and rather doubtful circumstances; I am afraid he is not in a very sound financial position; he is a thorough adventurer. It is a bad business for the daughter; she is a very nice creature. I wonder where he picked her up, for one can't believe she really is his daughter?"

"There is not much family likeness between them; certainly; but I see no reason for doubting his representations. He is evidently devoted to her, and his surroundings are perfectly respectable."

"Perfectly. Where did you meet him?"

"In America, many years ago."

"Indeed! Oh, are you going? Well, good-night."

Hugh Glynn was careful to stay in his room all the next morning, thinking that if Lambert wished to make any private communication, they were more secure from interruption there than elsewhere.

It was barely eleven when Lambert was announced. Glynn was positively startled by the change in his aspect. His weather-beaten face was colorless and haggard, his eyes had a hunted look, as though seeking a way of escape, his clothes were carelessly put on, his moustaches no longer waxed and fiercely twisted, his whole air bespoke neglect.

"Delighted to see you, Glynn," he said, a faint gleam of pleasure lighting up his restless eyes. "I was afraid you wouldn't get back again this season; business must be attended to. You're in business, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I can attend to it sometimes at a distance."

"That's fortunate; and you have been all right?"

"Yes; quite right, thank you."

There was an awkward pause. Lambert seemed unable to approach the matter, whatever it might be, which filled his mind; he took up a paper-knife, which he turned restlessly to and fro, he changed his position, and then, with a sigh, exclaimed, "You saw Elsie yesterday. She was glad you called, but she is not very bright. You didn't think her looking well, hey?"

"Not as well as usual, certainly."

"No; she is fretting—fretting about her old dad. It's wonderful how that creature loves me. Me!—sometimes when she is hanging about me, and singing the songs I like, and making a servant of herself for me, I just look back and think of the scenes I've gone through, and the queer scramble my life has been, and wonder how the dickens it happens that an angel like her can be so fond of an old scapegrace; that she doesn't shrink from me; but she doesn't," with infinite exultation, "she loves me, sir, as well as ever child loved father!"

"Of that I can have no doubt," cried Glynn. "And your affection for her deserves it."

"She has made another man of me," continued Lambert. "But though I have not been a regular saint all my days, I am as white as driven snow compared to some blackguards that hold up their heads in high places. I am rambling on like an idiot. I called to ask if you'll come and dine with us to-night. It cheers me up to see an honest face."

Glynn accepted the invitation readily, and after a pause, during which he drummed on the table, Lambert recommenced.

"I have not had a good time of it since you were away, Glynn. I have been on the brink of ruin through the treachery of a man I thought a friend. But I hope to get over it. I think I'll get over it, and whatever happens, Elsie's little fortune is out of harm's way. I made sure of that. She need never starve."

"Very prudent and proper," returned Glynn. "But I earnestly hope you will escape the loss you mention. Been bitten by a bubble company?"

"No! It's a long story; I'll tell it to you some day, and you'll judge for yourself; but not now, not now. Ah! you are a bright chap, Glynn, strong and steady. If you had a little capital, now, you'd get along first rate." He rose as he spoke and took a turn up and down.

Glynn did not answer his conjectures as to his—Glynn's—financial position; he felt terribly disappointed that Lambert had made no confession of tangible difficulties, and yet he was brimful of some trouble which he could not bring himself to confess. Lambert resumed his seat, and began talking in a rambling fashion of ordinary topics; but his thoughts were evidently elsewhere, and at length he went away, leaving a most painful impression on Glynn's mind, of profound despondency, of mental disquietude which he could not or would not express.

At dinner, some hours later, he either was more cheerful, or assumed a livelier aspect for his daughter's benefit. She seemed to accept the improvement as real, and the evening went quickly. With the help of music and conversation, Lambert, towards the end, seemed to forget his troubles and was more like himself. At parting Elsie gave Glynn an eloquent glance expressive of thanks, of mutual understanding, which sent him away charmed, restless,—longing for their next interview, yet full of dread for the future.

The next day as he was leaving his hotel he ran against Deering, who was coming in. "I am off to Vichy to-day," he said. "I thought I should just let you know. I ought to have gone a week ago, but I met some people that amused me; Lady Harriett Beauchamp and Wedderburn—you know them, I suppose? Shall I find you here when I return?"

"That depends on the length of your visit."

"Oh, about a fortnight."

"I shall hardly stay so long."

"Good-bye, then. Don't forget Denham in August. Lady Frances will be delighted to see you."

The very atmosphere seemed lighter and brighter to Glynn when Deering was safe away. Lambert was visibly relieved, and his daughter reflected her father's mood. Things went on much as before. Madame Davilliers' Fridays were more crowded and varied. They made little excursions to SÈvre, and to the beautiful woods of Mendan; sometimes with the Davilliers, sometimes only a quartet—Lambert, Elsie, Madame Weber, and Glynn.

These were delightful days. The quiet harmony of the present made Glynn regardless of the future. It was wonderfully interesting to draw Elsie from the observant silence which was habitual to her into sympathetic talk. There was always something to discover in her, something to win, of confidence, of self-revelation, and she was so teachable, with all her honest clinging to the conclusions of her own clear sense.

There were moments when his hesitation disappeared, and Glynn was almost resolved to make her his wife if she would have him; but that vague cloud of mystery was a bad accompaniment for married life.

The only discordant ingredient in this happy interlude was the occasional intrusion of Vincent, to whom Lambert showed a curious ceremonious politeness, dashed at times with epigrammatic bitterness, of which the dandified American took no notice. Elsie, on the contrary, was more friendly to him than formerly.

It was about ten days after Glynn's return, and he was debating in his own mind the prudence and advisability of a retreat while he had still some command of his own will. Dinner was over in Lambert's pretty salle À manger. Elsie had left her father and his friend to talk and smoke for the lazy, comfortable half-hour which succeeds the evening meal.

"Miss Lambert is looking quite herself again," said Glynn, his imagination too full of her to resist speech.

"She is," returned her father. "That is because I am brighter; but I am not out of the wood yet—not yet." He was silent for a moment or two, puffing vigorously while he thought. "Ay!—many an anxious thought she costs me. I'd give a good deal—all I possess, life itself, to know she was safe and in better hands than mine. Glynn, I am going to prove the confidence I have in you. We are men of the world, and can talk to each other without fear of misunderstanding."

"It's coming at last," thought Glynn. "You may be sure that anything you like to tell is safe with me," he said aloud.

"I know it." He rose, lifted the curtain which hung across the doorway leading to Elsie's little study, assured himself it was unoccupied and the outer door shut. Then he resumed his seat, and placing his arms on the table leant towards Glynn, and began in a low voice, which, as he plunged deeper into his subject, grew clearer and louder. "Look here, now, I don't see why, when I am in Rome, I shouldn't do as Rome does. I know you'll meet me in my own spirit. If you like what I am going to propose, well and good; if not, there's no harm done. First of all I suppose I am right in concluding you are not married—that you are free and independent?"

"I am," said Glynn, greatly surprised.

"Then what do you say to settling yourself? You are old enough. You are six or seven-and-thirty, I guess. Now, if you are so disposed, I'd die happy if I saw you married to my Elsie!"

Glynn started at this bold proposition; yet gazing at the eager eyes, the earnest face, the slight nervous twitch in the lips which had just uttered it, he felt strangely moved.

"Don't answer all at once," continued Lambert; "I calculate there's a goodish bit more to be said on the subject. I know this sort of thing isn't our fashion, but I am too uneasy about—ah! about the future, to wait for the chance of my jewel meeting the right man, and life is uncertain—mine especially. I wouldn't give her to you empty-handed, either."

"Why, Lambert, you take my breath away! In the first place I don't fancy Miss Lambert ever wasted a thought on me, except as to how far I might be of use to you."

"I know that; I am sure of it. If I thought she was in love with you I don't think I could speak out like this. No, love hasn't come into her heart yet, and you are too much a high-minded gentleman to try and rouse it; but she could love well; and look here, I have saved up and invested nearly five thousand pounds—I'll make it five full—that would be a nice lift to whatever business you are in. You see how I trust you. I don't care if you have a struggle; Elsie is no foolish, extravagant doll."

"Pray hear me," interrupted Glynn with difficulty; "so charming a creature as your daughter, wants no makeweight to recommend her; she would be a treasure in herself to any man of taste and feeling. But I do not wish or intend to marry for a considerable time to come," he continued, with increasing firmness, quite determined not to yield to the suggestion of another what he denied to the passionate craving of his own heart. "As you say, we are men of the world, and can discuss such a question coolly and fairly without, on my part, the smallest infringement of the warm respect and regard I feel for Miss Lambert. There are circumstances—reasons on which it is unnecessary to dilate—which forbid my entertaining your flattering and attractive proposition."

"Suppose I guess what they are," said Lambert, eagerly rolling up a cigarette, and scattering the shreds of tobacco as he did so. "You're a bit of a swell, I calculate; you are among a desperate respectable set of city bosses. Hear me now; I'm not thin-skinned. I know I'm not the sort that would go down with them, and you know I was a queer lot once. Well, if you take my Elsie, I'll go right away; I'll never ask to trouble you or her. What matter what becomes of me if she is safe?—oh, God! safe with an honorable, kind man, who would give her a peaceful home. Ay, Elsie, I love you well enough never to ask to see your sweet face if I could earn peace and security for you!"

"And do you think she would love a husband who could part her from such a father as you are?" asked Glynn, deeply touched.

"But she should never know,"—eagerly: "I'd just go away on business, and stay away, and she'd forget; she would always have a kind thought for me, but the new love would fill her heart; and if you tried to win her she'd love you. I am sure she would! Now, can't it be, Glynn?—can't it?"

"No. It is with deepest reluctance I say it. If I can in any way serve you or her, command me; but unfortunately for myself this cannot be."

There was a short expressive silence; then Lambert said in an altered voice, "Anyhow, there is no harm done; I am sure you've some good reason, and we'll not be the worse friends because we can be nothing nearer."

"Certainly not; and for my part I have a higher esteem for you than I ever had before. I trust, however, that you have no serious cause for uneasiness about your daughter. If her little fortune is secured, these are too prosaic times for daring and villainous lovers, murderous conspirators, or other dramatic dangers."

"Ay, civilization is just deep enough to hide the devils that work underneath it. I had one or two things to tell a son-in-law that, maybe, I had better keep to myself now."

"I sincerely hope you will not look on me as the less warm a friend because I cannot unfortunately fall in with your views; you do not wish me to absent myself?"

"Far from it," interrupted Lambert; "be true to me—be true to her; maybe by and by you'll have a good wife that might befriend my girl; she has no one in the world belonging to her but myself, and I begin to fear I am a broken reed."

"My marriage is a remote contingency," said Glynn. "Were you in London, I could introduce Miss Lambert to a somewhat peculiar but kind-hearted woman, a connection of mine, who would most probably be interested in her,—I was going to say charmed with her, only it is hard to answer for the impression one woman may make upon another."

"Everything is hard," remarked Lambert moodily, and as if to himself. "Well, let us forget this fruitless palaver, and be as we were. I am quite sure you are ready to do me a good turn if you can—if—Ah! I hear Elsie singing. Come along, let us forget our troubles for a bit over a game of baccarat."

But Glynn did not attend to his cards, his head was in a whirl. He was infinitely touched by the unconsciousness of the songstress, who received them with the soft composure peculiar to her, which had in it so much womanly dignity. How little she dreamed that the man who thrilled at her touch, who drank in the tones of her voice greedily, had refused to share his life with her—had rejected the chance of winning her, for Glynn acknowledged there was a "con" as well as a "pro" in the case. He had survived the age at which men think they have but to ask and they must receive.

"Oh! Mr. Glynn," said Elsie, suddenly turning to him, "Madame Davilliers begs you to take a ticket for a ball which is to be given at the Louvre Hotel, for the benefit of an orphanage under the direction of sisters of St. Vincent de Paul. Madame is one of the committee."

"I shall be very happy. Are you going?"

"Yes; that is, if my father can spare me." She rose as she spoke and turned towards Lambert, who was sitting in an attitude of deep dejection, his cards lying on the table beside him.

"Dearest," said Elsie, stealing to his side, and laying her cool white hand on his brow, "does your head ache?"

"No, no, not much"; then with a sudden impulse, "You love your dad then, though he is a rugged old cuss?"

Elsie smiled, an exquisitely tender smile. "So well, that nothing and no one could make up for the want of him."

Glynn was struck with her words. Could she by any possibility have overheard her father's proposal, and his refusal? Such an idea was appalling. But no, it was quite impossible.