When the professor called upon Angela that same Sunday morning and requested an interview, she perceived that something serious was intended. He had on, as if for an occasion, a new coat with a flower in the buttonhole, a chrysanthemum. His face was extremely solemn, and his fingers, which always seemed restless and dissatisfied unless they were making things disappear and come again, were quite still.

Certainly, he had something on his mind.

The drawing-room had one or two girls in it, who were reading and talking, though they ought to have been in church—Angela left their religious duties to their own consciences. But the dining-room was empty and the interview was held there.

The professor had certainly made up in his own mind exactly what was going to be said: he had dramatized the situation—a very good plan if you are quite sure of the replies; otherwise, you are apt to be put out.

"Miss Kennedy," he began, with a low voice, "allow me, first of all, to thank you for your great kindness during a late season of depression."

"I am very glad it is a late season," said Angela; "that means, I presume, that the depression has passed away."

"Quite, I am glad to say; in fact," the professor laughed cheerfully, "I have got engagements from now to nearly the end of April in the country, and am in treaty for a West-End engagement in May. Industry and application, not to speak of talent, will make their way in the long run. But I hope I am none the less grateful to you for your loan—let me call it a loan—when things were tight. I assure you, Miss Kennedy, that the run into the country, after those parish registers, was as good as a week's engagement, simple as it looked, and as for that Saturday night for your girls——"

"O Professor, we were agreed that it should appear to be given by you for nothing."

"Never mind what it was agreed. You know very well what was paid for it. Now, if it hadn't been for that night's performance and that little trip into the country, I verily believe they would have had to send for a nice long box for me—a box that can't be palmed, and I should have gone off in it to a country where perhaps they don't care for conjuring."

"In that case, professor, I am very glad to have been of help."

"And so," he went on—following the programme he had laid down in his own mind—"And so I came here to-day to ask if your interest in conjuring could be stimulated to a professional height."

"Really, I do not know. Professional? You mean——"

"Anybody can see that you've showed an interest in the subject beyond what is expected or found in women. What I came here to-day for is to ask whether you like the conjurer well enough to take to conjuring?"

Angela laughed and was astonished, after being told by Daniel Fagg that he would honor her by making her his wife, but for certain reasons of age. Now, having became hardened, it seemed but a small thing to receive the offer of a conjurer, and the proposal to join the profession.

"I think it must be the science, professor," she said; "yes, it must be the science that I like so much. Not the man who exhibits his skill in the science. Yes, I think of your admirable science."

"Ah," he heaved a deep sigh, "you are quite right, miss; science is better than love. Love! What sort of a thing is that, when you get tired of it in a month? But science fills up all your life: people are always learning—always."

"I am so glad, professor, that I can agree with you entirely."

"Which makes me bolder," he said, "because we could be useful to each other, without pretending to be in love, or any nonsense of that sort."

"Indeed. Now, I shall be very pleased to be useful to you without, as you say, any foolish pretence or nonsense."

"The way is this: you can play, can't you?"

"Yes."

"And sing?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever dance in tights?"

"No, I never did that."

"Ah, well—it's a pity; but one can't expect everything. And no doubt you'd take to it easy. They all do. Did you ever sing on the stage—at a music-hall, I mean?"

"No. I never did."

"There was a chap—but I suppose he was a liar—said you used to sing under an electric light at the Canterbury, with a character dance, and a topical song, and a kick up at the finish."

"Yes, professor. I think that 'chap' must certainly be written down a liar. But go on."

"I told him he was, and he offered to fight me for half a crown. When I said I'd do it, and willingly, for a bob, he went away. I think he's the fellow Harry Goslett knocked down one night. Bunker put him up to it. Bunker doesn't like you. Never mind him. Look here, now."

"I am looking as hard as I can."

"There's some things that bring the money in, and some that don't. Dressmaking don't; conjurin' does."

"Yet you yourself, professor—"

"Why," he asked, "because I am only four-and-twenty, and not much known as yet. Give me time; wait. Lord! to see the clumsy things done by the men who've got a name. And how they go down; and a child would spot the dodge! Now, mark my words—if you go in with me, there's a fortune in it."

"For your sake, I am glad to hear it; but it must be without me."

"It is for your sake that I tell you of it."

He was not in love at all. Love and science have never yet really composed their differences; and there was not the least dropping of his voice, or any sign of passion in his speech.

"For your sake," he repeated. "Because, if you can be got to see your way as I see it, there's a fortune for both of us."

"Oh!"

"Yes: now, miss, listen. Conjuring, like most things, is makin' believe and deceivin'. What we do is, to show you one thing and to do another. The only thing is, to do it so quick that it shan't be seen even by the few men who know how it is done. No woman yet was ever able to be a conjurer, which is a rum thing, because their fingers do pretty for music, and lace-work, and such. But for conjurin', they haven't the mind. You want a man's brain for such work."

"I have always," said Angela, "felt what poor, weak things we are, compared with men."

"Yes, you are," continued the professor gallantly. "But you do have your uses in the world—most things have. Now, as a confederate or assistant, there's nobody like a woman. They do what they are told to do. They are faithful over the secrets. They learn their place on the platform and they stay there. Some professors carry about a boy with them. But you can't place any real trust in a boy; he's always up to tricks, and if you wallop him—likely as not, next night he'll take and spoil your best trick out of revenge. Some have a man to help, but then he learns the secrets and tries to cut you out; but with a woman you're always pretty safe. A daughter's best; because then you pocket all the money yourself. But a wife is next best so long as she keeps steady and acts on the square."

"I never thought of it before," said Angela, "but I suppose it is as you say, and the real object for which women were created must have been the assistance of conjurers."

"Of course," said the professor, failing to see the delicate sarcasm of this remark—"of course. What better thing could they do? Why, here you sit slaving all day long, and all the year round; and what are you the better for it? A bare living—that's all you get out of it. Whether you go into shops, behind a bar, or into the workroom, it's the same story—a bare living. Look at the conjurin' line now: you live in splendor; you go on the stage in a most beautiful costume—silks and satins, gold and spangles; tights, if you like. You travel about the country free. You hear the people clapping their hands whenever you go in; and believin' that you do it all yourself. You've got nothing to do but just what you are told, and that's your life—with pockets full of money, and the proud consciousness that you are making your fortune."

"It certainly seems very beautiful to look at; are there no drawbacks?"

"None," answered the enthusiast. "It's the best profession in the world—there's no danger in it. There's no capital required. All it wants is cleverness. That's why I come to you; because you are a real clever girl, and what's more, you're good-looking—it is not always that looks and brains go together."

"Very well, professor. Let us come to the point—what is it you want me to do?"

"I want you, Miss Kennedy, to go about the country with me. You shall be my assistant; you shall play the piano, and come on dressed in a pink costume—which generally fetches at an entertainment. Nothing to say; and I will teach you by degrees all the dodges, and the way it's done you will learn. You'll be surprised when you find how easy it is, and yet how you can't do it. And when you hear the people telling what they saw, and you know just exactly what they could have seen if they'd had their eyes in their heads, you'll laugh—you will."

"But I'm afraid I can't think——"

"Don't raise difficulties, now," he spoke persuasively. "I am coming to them directly. I've got ideas in my head which I can't carry through without a real, clever confederate. And you must be that confederate. Electricity: now"—he lowered his voice, and whispered—"none of the conjurers have got a battery at work. Think of new feats of marvel and magic never before considered possible; and done secret by electricity. What a shame—what a cruel shame, to have let the world get hold of electricity! Why, it ought to have been kept for conjurers. And telephones—again, what a scope there is in a good telephone! You and me together, Miss Kennedy, could knock up an entertainment as nobody ever yet dreamed of. If you could dance a bit it would be an advantage. But, if you won't, of course, we must give it up. And, as to the dressmaking rubbish, why in a week you will be wondering how in the world you ever came to waste your time upon it at all, while such a chance was going about in the world. Not that I blame you for it; not at all. It was your ignorance kept you out of it, and your good luck threw you in the way of it."

"That may be so. But still, I am not sure——"

"I haven't done yet. Look here! I've been turning the thing over in my own mind a good bit. The only way I can think of for such a girl as you to go about the country with a show is for you to be married to the showman—so I'll marry you before we start, and then we shall be comfortable and happy, and ready for the fortune to come in. And you'll be quite sure of your share in it."

"Thank you, professor."

"Very good, then; no need for thanks. I've got engagements in the country for over three months. We'll marry at once, and you can spend that time in learning."

Angela laughed. Were women of "her class," she thought, so easily won, and so unceremoniously wooed? Were there no preliminary advances, soft speeches, words of compliment and flattery?

"I've been laying out a plan," the professor went on, "for the most complete thing you ever saw! Never before attempted on any stage! Marvelous optical illusion. Hush—electricity!" [He said this in a stage whisper.] "You are to be a fairy. Stale old business, isn't it? But it always pays. Silk stockin's and gauze, with a wand. I'm Sinbad the Sailor, or Robinson Crusoe. It doesn't matter what; and then you——"

"Stay a moment, professor"—she laid her hand upon his arm—"you have not waited for my answer. I cannot, unfortunately, marry you; nor can I go about the country with you; nor can I possibly become your confederate and assistant."

"You can't marry me? Why not, when I offer you a fortune?"

"Not even for fortune."

"Why not?"

"Well, for many reasons. One of them is that I cannot leave my dressmaking—rubbish, as it seems to you. That is, indeed, a sufficient reason."

"Oh!"—his face becoming sad—"and I set my heart upon it! The very first time I saw you I said to myself, 'There's a girl for the business—never was such a girl!' And to think you're thrown away on a dressmaking business. Oh! it's too bad! and that you're contented with your lot, humble as it is, when I offer to make you an artist, and to give you a fortune. That's what cuts me to the quick—that you should be contented."

"I am very much ashamed of myself," said Angela, with contrition; "but, you see, what you ask is impossible."

"And I only made up my mind last night that I would marry you, if nothing else would do."

"Did you—poor professor! I am quite sorry for you; but you should never marry a woman unless you are in love with her. Now it's quite clear that you are not in love with me."

"Love! I've got my work to think of."

"Then good-morning, professor. Let us part friends, if I cannot accept your offer."

He took her offered hand with reluctance, and in sorrow more than in anger.

"Do you really understand," he asked, "what you are throwing away? Fame and fortune—nothing less."

She laughed, and drew back her hand, shaking her head.

"Oh, the woman's a fool!" cried the professor, losing his temper, and slamming the door after him.