For a moment they looked at each other. The smile on Roxmouth's face widened.

"Come, come, Maryllia!" he said, easily—"Don't be foolish! The airs of a tragedy queen do not suit you. I assure you I haven't the least objection to your amusing yourself with a parson, if you like! The conversation in the picture-gallery just now was quite idyllic—all about a cigarette and Psyche! Really it was most absurd!—and the little sermon of the enamoured clergyman to his pretty penitent was as unique as it was priggish. I'm sure you must have been vastly entertained! And the final allusion he made to his age—THAT was a masterstroke of pathos!—or bathos? Which? Du sublime au ridicule il n'y'a qu'un pas, Madame!"

Her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon him.

"So you listened!" she said.

"Naturally! One always listens to a comedy if it is played well. I've been listening all the evening. I've listened to your waif and stray, Cicely Bourne, and am perfectly willing to admit that she is worth the training you are giving her. It's the first time I've heard her sing to advantage. I've listened to Eva Beaulyon's involved explanation of a perfectly unworkable scheme for the education of country yokels (who never do anything with education when they get it), on which she is going to extract twenty thousand pounds for herself from the pockets of her newest millionaire- victim. I've listened to the Bludlip Courtenay woman's enthusiastic description of a new specific for the eradication of wrinkles and crowsfeet. I've listened to that old bore Sir Morton Pippitt, and to the afflicting county gossip of the lady in green,—Miss Ittlethwaite is her name, I believe. And, getting tired of these things, I strolled towards the picture-gallery, and hearing your delightful voice, listened there. I confess I heard more than I expected!"

Without a word in response, she turned from him and began to move away. He stretched out a hand and caught her sleeve.

"Maryllia, wait! I must speak to you—and I may as well say what I have to say now and get it over."

She paused. Lifting her eyes she glanced at him with a look of utter scorn and contempt. He laughed.

"Come out into the moonlight!"—he said—"Come and walk with me in this romantic old courtyard. It suits you, and you suit it. You are very pretty, Maryllia! May I—notwithstanding the parson—smoke?"

She said nothing. Drawing a leather case from his pocket, he took a cigar out and lit it.

"Silence gives consent,"—he went on—"Besides I'm sure you don't mind. You know plenty of men who can never talk comfortably without puffing smoke in between whiles. I'm one of that sort. Don't look at me like Cleopatra deprived of Marc Antony. Be reasonable! I only want to say a few plain matter-of-fact words to you—-"

"Say them then as quickly as possible, please,"—she replied—"I am
NOT a good listener!"

"No? Now I should have thought you were, judging by the patience with which you endured the parson's general discursiveness. What a superb night!" He stepped from the portal out on the old flagstones of the courtyard. "Take just one turn with me, Maryllia!"

Quietly, and with an air of cold composure she came to him, and walked slowly at his side. He looked at her covertly, yet critically.

"I won't make love to you,"—he said presently, with a smile— "because you tell me you don't like it. I will merely put a case before you and ask for your opinion! Have I your permission?"

She bent her head slightly. Her throat was dry,—her heart was beating painfully,—she knew Roxmouth's crafty and treacherous nature, and her whole soul sickened as she realised that now he could, if he chose, drag the name of John Walden through a mire of social mud, and hold it up to ridicule among his own particular 'set,' who would certainly lose no time in blackening it with their ever-ready tar-brush. And it was all through her—all through her! How would she ever forgive herself if his austere and honourable reputation were touched in ever so slight a degree by a breath of scandal? Unconsciously, she clasped her little hands and wrung them hard—Roxmouth saw the action, and quickly fathomed the inward suffering it indicated.

"You know my dearest ambition,"—he went on,—"and I need not emphasise it. It is to call you my wife. If you consent to marry me, you take at once a high position in the society to which you naturally belong. But you tell me I am detestable to you—and that you would rather die than accept me as a husband. I confess I do not understand your attitude,—and, if you will allow me to say so, I hardly think you understand it yourself. You are in a state of uncertainty—most women live always in that state;—and your vacillating soul like a bewildered butterfly—you see I am copying the clerical example by dropping into poetry!—and a butterfly, NOT a cigarette, is I believe the correct emblem of Psyche,—" here he took a whiff at his cigar, and smiled pleasantly—"your soul, I repeat, like a bewildered butterfly, has lighted by chance on a full-flowering parson. The flight—the pause on that maturely-grown blossom of piety, is pardonable,—but I cannot contemplate with pleasure the idea of your compromising your name with that of this sentimental middle-aged individual who, though he may be an excellent Churchman, would make rather a grotesque lover!"

She remained silent. Glancing sideways at her, he wondered whether it was the moonlight that made her look so set and pale.

"But I said I would put a case before you,"—he continued, "and I will. Here are you,—of an age to be married. Here am I,—anxious to marry you. We are neither of us growing younger—and delay seems foolish. I offer you all I am worth in the world—myself, my name and my position. You have refused me a score of times, and I am not discouraged—you refuse me still, and I am not baffled. But I ask why? I am not deformed or idiotic. I would try to make you happy. A woman is best when she has entirely her own way,—I would let you have yours. You would be free to follow your own whims and caprices. Provided you gave me lawful heirs, I should ask no more of you. No reasonable man ought to ask more of any reasonable woman. Life could be made very enjoyable to us both, with a little tact and sense on either side. I should amuse myself in the world, and so I hope, would you. We understand modern life and appreciate its conveniences. The freedom of the matrimonial state is one of those conveniences, of which I am sure we should equally take advantage."

He puffed at his cigar for a few minutes complacently.

"You profess to hate me,"—he went on—"Again I ask, why? You tell your aunt that you want to be 'loved.' You consider love the only lasting good of life. Well, you have your desire. I love you!"

She raised her eyes,—and then suddenly laughed.

"You!" she said—"You 'love' me? It must be a very piecemeal sort of love, then, for I know at least five women to whom you have said the same thing!"

He was in nowise disconcerted.

"Only five!" he murmured lazily—"Why not ten—or twenty? The more the merrier! Women delight in bragging of conquests they have never made, as why should they not? Lying comes so naturally to them! But I do not profess to be a saint,—I daresay I have said 'I love you' to a hundred women in a certain fashion,—but not as I say it to you. When I say it to you, I mean it."

"Mean what?" she asked.

"Love."

She stopped in her walk and faced him.

"When a man loves a woman—really loves her,"—she said, "Does he persecute her? Does he compromise her in society? Does he try to scandalise her among her friends? Does he whisper her name away on a false rumour, and accuse her of running after him for his title, while all the time he knows it is he himself that is running after her money? Does he make her life a misery to her, and leave her no peace anywhere, not even in her own house? Does he spy upon her, and set others to do the same?—does he listen at doors and interrogate servants as to her movements—and does he altogether play the dastardly traitor to prove his 'love'?"

Her voice shook—her eyes were ablaze with indignation. Roxmouth flicked a little ash off his cigar.

"Why, of course not!" he replied—"But who does these dreadful things? Are they done at all except in your imagination?"

"YOU do them!" said Maryllia, passionately—"And you have always done them! When I tell you once and for all that I have given up every chance I ever had of being my aunt's heiress—that I shall never be a rich woman,—and that I would far rather die a beggar than be your wife, will you not understand me?—will you not leave me alone?"

He looked at her with quizzical amusement.

"Do you really want to be left alone?" he asked—"Or in a 'solitude a deux'—with the parson?"

She was silent, though her silence cost her an effort. But she knew that the least word she might say concerning Walden would be wilfully misconstrued. She knew that Roxmouth was waiting for her to burst out with some indignant denial of his suggestions—something that he might twist and turn in his own fashion and repeat afterwards to all his and her acquaintances. She cared nothing for herself, but she was full of dread lest Walden's name should be bandied up and down on the scurrilous tongues of that 'upper class' throng, who, because they spend their lives in nothing nobler than political intrigue and sensual indulgence, are politely set aside as froth and scum by the saner, cleaner world, and classified as the 'Smart Set.' Roxmouth watched her furtively. His clear-cut face, white skin and sandy hair shone all together with an oily lustre in the moonlight;—there was a hard cold gleam in his eyes.

"It would be a pretty little story for the society press," he said, after a pause—"How the bewitching Maryllia Vancourt resigned the brilliancy of her social life for a dream of love with an elderly country clergyman! By Heaven! No one would believe it! But,"—and he waited a minute, then continued—"It's a story that shall never be told so far as I am concerned—if—" He broke off, and looked meditatively at the end of his cigar. "There is always an 'if'— unfortunately!"

Maryllia smiled coldly.

"That is a threat,"—she said—"But it does not affect me! Nothing that you can do or say will make me consent to marry you. You have slandered me already—you can slander me again for all I care. But I will never be your wife."

"You have said so before,"—he observed, placidly—"And I have put the question many times—why?"

She looked at him steadily.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Do! I shall appreciate the favour!"

For a moment she hesitated. A great pain and sorrow clouded her eyes.

"No woman marries a leper by choice!"—she said at last, slowly.

He glanced at her,—then shrugged his shoulders.

"You talk in parables. Pardon me if I am too dull to understand you!"

"You understand me well enough,"—she answered—"But if you wish it,
I will speak more plainly. I dream of love—-"

"Most women do!" he interrupted her, smilingly—"And I am sure you dream charmingly. But is a middle-aged parson part of the romantic vision?"

She paid no heed to this sarcasm. She had moved a pace or two away from him, and now stood, her head slightly uplifted, her eyes turned wistfully towards the picturesque gables of the Manor outlined clearly in the moon against the dense night sky.

"I dream of love!"—she repeated softly,—while he, smoking tranquilly, and looking the very image of a tailor's model in his faultlessly cut dress suit, spotless shirt front, and aggressively neat white tie, studied her face, her figure and her attitude with amused interest—"But my dream is not what the world offers me as the dream's realisation! The love that I mean—the love that I seek- -the love that I want—the love that I will have,"—and she raised her hand involuntarily with a slight gesture which almost implied a command—"or else go loveless all my days—is an honest love,— loyal, true and pure!—and strong enough to last through this life and all the lives to come!"

"If there are any!"—interpolated Roxmouth, blandly.

She looked at him,—and a vague expression of something like physical repulsion flitted across her face.

"It is no use talking to you,"—she said—"For you believe in nothing—not even in God! You are a man of your own making—you are not a man in the true sense of manhood. How can you know anything of love? You will not find it in the low haunts of Paris where you are so well known,—where your name is a byword as that of an English 'milord' who degrades his Order!"

"What do YOU know of the low haunts of Paris?" he queried with a cold laugh—"Is Louis Gigue your informant?'

"I daresay Louis Gigue knows as much of you as most men do,"—she replied, quietly—"But I never speak of you to him. Indeed, I never speak of you at all unless you are spoken of, and not always then. You do not interest me sufficiently!"

She moved towards the house. He followed her.

"Your remarks have been somewhat rambling and disjointed,"—he said- -"But essentially feminine, after all. And they merely tend to one thing—that you are still an untamed shrew!"

She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight,—a faint smile curved her pretty mouth.

"If I am, it will need someone braver than you are to tame me!" she said—"A trickster is always a coward!"

With an angry exclamation he flung away the end of his cigar,—it fell into a harmless bed of mignonette and seared the sweet blossom, burning redly in the green like a wicked eye. And then he caught her hand firmly and held it grasped as in a vice.

"You insult me!" he said, thickly—"And I shall not forget it! You talk as a child talks—though you are no child! You are a woman of the world—you have travelled—you have had experience—and you know men. You are perfectly aware that the sentimental 'love' you speak of exists nowhere except in poems and story-books—you know that no sane man alive would tie himself to one woman save for the law's demand that his heirs shall be lawfully born. You are no shrinking maid in her teens, that you should start and recoil or blush, at the truth of the position, and it is the merest affectation on your part to talk about 'love lasting forever,' for you are perfectly aware that it cannot last very long over the honeymoon. The natural state of man is polygamous. Englishmen are the same as Turks or Hottentots in this respect, except for the saving grace of hypocrisy, which is the chief prop of European civilisation. If it were not for hypocrisy, we should all be savages as utterly and completely as in primaeval days! You know all this as well as I do—and yet you feign to desire the impossible, while all the time you play the fool with a country parson! But I'll make you pay for it—by Heaven, I will! You scorn me and my name—you call me a social leper—-"

"You are one!" she said, wrenching her hand from his clasp—"And what is more, you know it, and you glory in it! Who are your associates? Men who are physically or morally degenerate—women who, so long as their appetites are satisfied, seek nothing more! You play the patron to a certain literary 'set' who produce books unfit to be read by any decent human being,—you work your way, by means of your title and position, through society, contaminating everything you touch! You contaminate ME by associating my name with yours!—and my aunt helps you in the wicked scheme! I came here to my own home—to the house where my father died—thinking that perhaps here at least I should find peace,"—and her voice shook as with tears—"that here, at least, the old walls might give me shelter and protection!—but even here you followed me with your paid spy, Marius Longford—and I have found myself surrounded by your base tools almost despite myself! But even if you try to hound me into my grave, I will never marry you! I would rather die a hundred times over than be your wife!"

His face flushed a dark red, and he suddenly made an though he would seize her in his arms. She retreated swiftly.

"Do not touch me!" she said, in a low, strained voice—"It will be the worse for you if you do!"

"The worse for me—or for YOU?" he muttered fiercely,—then regaining his composure, he burst into an angry laugh. "Bah! You are nothing but a woman! You fling aside what you have, and pine for what you have not! The old, old story! The eternal feminine!"

She made no reply, but moved on towards the house. "Quel ravissement de la lune!" exclaimed a deep guttural voice at this juncture, and Louis Gigue came out from the dark embrasure of the Manor's oaken portal into the full splendour of the moonlight—"Et la belle Mademoiselle Vancourt is ze adorable fantome of ze night! Et milord Roxmouth ze what-you-call?—ze gnome!—ze shadow of ze lumiere! Ha-ha! C'est joli, zat little chanson of ze little rose- tree! Ze music, c'est une inspiration de Cicely—and ze words are not so melancolique as ze love-songs made ordinairement en Angleterre! Oui—oui!—c'est joli!"

He turned his shrewd old face up to the sky, and blinked at the dim stars,—there was a smile under his grizzled moustache. He had interrupted the conversation between his hostess and her objectionable wooer precisely at the right moment, and he knew it. Roxmouth's pale face grew a shade paler, but he made a very good assumption of perfect composure, and taking out his case of cigars offered one to Gigue, who cheerfully accepted it. Then he lit one for himself with a hand that trembled slightly. Maryllia, pausing on the step of the porch as she was about to enter, turned her head back towards him for a moment.

"Are you staying long at Badsworth Hall?" she asked.

"About a fortnight or three weeks,"—he answered carelessly, "Mr. Longford is doing some literary work and needs the quiet of the country—and Sir Morton Pippitt is good enough to wish us to extend our visit."

He smiled as he spoke. She said nothing further, but slowly passed into the house. Gigue at once began to walk up and down the courtyard, smoking vigorously, and talking volubly concerning the future of his pupil Cicely Bourne, and the triumph she would make some two years hence as a 'prima donna assoluta,' far greater than Patti ever was in her palmiest days,—and Roxmouth was perforce compelled, out of civility, as well as immediate diplomacy, to listen to him with some show of interest.

"Do you think an artistic career a good thing for a woman?" he asked, with a slight touch of satire in his voice as he put the question.

Gigue glanced up at him quickly and comprehendingly.

"Ah, bah! Pour une femme il n'y'a qu'une chose—l'Amour!" he replied—"Mais—au meme temps—l'Art c'est mieux qu'un mariage de convenance!"

Roxmouth shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, smiled tolerantly, and changed the subject.

That same evening, when everyone had retired to bed, and when Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay was carefully taking off her artistically woven 'real hair' eyebrows and putting them by in a box for the night, Lady Beaulyon, arrayed in a marvellous 'deshabille' of lace and pale blue satin, which would have been called by the up-to-date modiste 'a dream of cerulean sweetness,' came into her room with dejection visibly written on her photographically valuable features.

"It's all over, Pipkin!" she said, with a sigh,—Pipkin was the poetic pet-name by which the 'beauty' of the press-paragraphist addressed her Ever-Youthful friend,—"We shall never get a penny out of Mrs. Fred Vancourt. Maryllia is a mule! She has told me as plainly as politeness will allow her to do that she does not intend to know either you or me any more after we have left here—and you know we're off to-morrow. So to-morrow ends the acquaintance. That girl's 'cheek' is beyond words! One would think she was an empress, instead of being a little bounder with only an old Manor-house and certainly not more than two thousand a year in her own right!"

'Pipkin' stared. That she was destitute of eyebrows, save for a few iron-grey bristles where eyebrows should have been, and that her beautiful Titian hair was lying dishevelled on her dressing table, were facts entirely lost sight of in the stupefaction of the moment.

"Maryllia Vancourt does not intend to know US!" she ejaculated,—
"Nonsense, Eva! The girl must be mad!"

"Mad or sane, that's what she says,"—and Eva Beaulyon turned away from the spectacle of her semi-bald and eyebrow-less confidante with a species of sudden irritation and repulsion—"She declares we are in the pay of her aunt and Lord Roxmouth. So we are, more or less! And what does it matter! Money must be had—and whatever way there is of getting it should be taken. I laughed at her, and told her quite frankly that I would do anything for money,—flatter a millionaire one day and cut him the next, if I could get cheques for doing both. How in the world should I get on without money?—or you either! But she is an incorrigible little idiot—talks about honour and principle exactly like some mediaeval story-book. She declares she will never speak to either of us again after we've gone away to- morrow. Of course we can easily reverse the position and turn the tables upon her by saying we will not speak to her again. That will be easy enough—for I believe she's after the parson."

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay's eyes lightened with malignity.

"What, that man who objected to our smoke?"

Lady Beaulyon nodded.

"And I think Roxmouth sees it!"—she added.

'Pipkin' looked weirdly meditative and curiously wizened for a moment. Then she suddenly laughed and clapped her hands.

"That will do!" she exclaimed—"That's quite good enough for US!
Mrs. Fred will pay for THAT information! Don't you see?"

Lady Beaulyon shook her head.

"Don't you? Well, wait till we get back to town!"—and 'Pipkin' took up her false hair and shook it gently, as she spoke—"We can do wonders—wonders, I tell you, Eva! And till we go, we'll be as nice to the girl as we can,—go off good friends and all that sort of thing—tell her how much we've enjoyed ourselves—thank her profusely,—and then once away we'll tell Mrs. Fred all about John Walden, and leave her to do as she likes with the story. That will be quite enough! If Maryllia has any sneaking liking for the man, she'll do anything to save HIS name if she doesn't care about saving her own!"

"Oh, I see now!" and Lady Beaulyon's eyes sparkled up with a gleam of malice—"Yes—I quite understand!"

'Pipkin' danced about the room in ecstasy,—she was half undressed for the night, and showed a pair of exceedingly thin old legs under an exceedingly short young petticoat.

"Maryllia Vancourt and a country parson!" she exclaimed, "The whole thing is TOO delicious! Go to bed, Eva! Get your beauty sleep or you'll have ever so many more wrinkles than you need! Good-night, dearest! If Maryllia declines to know US, we shall soon find excellent reasons for not knowing HER! Good-night!"

With a shrill little laugh, the lady kissed her dear friend affectionately—and if the caress was not returned with very great fervour, it may be presumed that this coldness was due more to the unlovely impression created by the night 'toilette' of the Ever- Youthful one, than anything else. Anyway the two social schemers parted on the most cordial terms, and retired to their several couches with an edifying sense of virtue pervading them both morally and physically.

And while they and others in the Manor were sleeping, Maryllia lay broad awake, watching the moonbeams creeping about her room like thin silver threads, interlacing every object in a network of pale luminance,—and listening to the slow tick-tock of the rusty timepiece in the courtyard which said, 'Give all—take nothing— give—all—take—no—thing!'—with such steady and monotonous persistence. She was sad yet happy,—perplexed, yet peaceful;—she had decided on her own course of action, and though that course involved some immediate vexation and inconvenience to herself, she was satisfied that it was the only one possible to adopt under the irritating circumstances by which she was hemmed in and surrounded.

"It will be best for everyone concerned,"—she said, with a sigh— "Of course it upsets all my plans and spoils my whole summer,—but it is the only thing to do—the wisest and safest, both for—for Mr. Walden—and for me. I should be a very poor friend if I could not sacrifice myself and my own pleasure to save him from possible annoyance,—and though it is a little hard—yes!—it IS hard!—it can't be helped, and I must go through with it. 'Home, Home, sweet Home!' Yes—dear old Home!—you shall not be darkened by a shadow of deceit or treachery if I can prevent it!—and for the present, my way is the only way!"

One or two tears glittered on her long lashes when she at last fell into a light slumber, and the old pendulum's rusty voice croaking out: 'Give all—take no—thing' echoed hoarsely through her dreams like a harsh command which it was more or less difficult to obey. But life, as we all know, is not made up of great events so much as of irritating trifles,—poor, wretched, apparently insignificant trifles, which, nevertheless do so act upon our destinies sometimes as to put everything out of gear, and make havoc and confusion where there should be nothing but peace. It was the merest trifle that Sir Morton Pippitt should have brought his 'distinguished guests,' including Marius Longford, to see John Walden's church—and also have taken him to visit Maryllia in her own home;—it was equally trifling that Longford, improving on the knightly Bone-Melter's acquaintance, should have chosen to import Lord Roxmouth into the neighbourhood through the convenient precincts of Badsworth Hall;— it was a trifle that Maryllia should have actually believed in the good faith of two women who had formerly entertained her at their own houses and whose hospitality she was anxious to return;—and it was a trifle that John Walden should, so to speak, have made a conventionally social 'slip' in his protest against smoking women;— but there the trifles stopped. Maryllia knew well enough that only the very strongest feeling, the very deepest and most intense emotion could have made the quiet, self-contained 'man o' God' as Mrs. Spruce called him, speak to her as he had done,—and she also knew that only the most bitter malice and cruel under-intent to do mischief could have roused Roxmouth, usually so coldly self-centred, to the white heat of wrath which had blazed out of him that evening. Between these two men she stood—a quite worthless object of regard, so she assured herself,—through her, one of them was like to have his name torn to shreds in the foul mouths of up-to-date salacious slanderers,—and likewise through her, the other was prepared and ready to commit himself to any kind of lie, any sort of treachery, in order to gain his own interested ends. Small wonder that tears rose to her eyes even in sleep—and that in an uneasy and confused dream she saw John Walden standing in his garden near the lilac-tree from which he had once given her a spray,—and that he turned upon her a sad white face, furrowed with pain and grief, while he said in weary accents—"Why have you troubled my peace? I was so happy till you came!" And she cried out—"Oh, let me go away! No one wants me! I have never been loved much in all my life—but I am loving enough not to wish to give pain to my friends—let me go away from my dear old home and never come back again, rather than make you wretched!"

And then with a cry she awoke, shivering and half-sobbing, to feel herself the loneliest of little mortals—to long impotently for her father's touch, her father's kiss,—to pray to that dimly-radiant phantom of her mother's loveliness which was pictured on her brain, and anon to stretch out her pretty rounded arms with a soft cry of mingled tenderness and pain—"Oh, I am so sorry!—so sorry for HIM! I know he is unhappy!—and it's all my fault! I wish—I wish—-"

But what she wished she could not express, even to herself. Her sensitive nature was keenly alive to every slight impression of kindness or of coldness;—and the intense longing for love, which had been the pulse of her inmost being since her earliest infancy, and which had filled her with such passionate devotion to her father that her grief at his loss had been almost abnormally profound and despairing, made her feel poignantly every little incident which emphasised, or seemed to emphasise, her own utter loneliness in the world; and she was just now strung up to such a nervous tension, that she would almost have consented to wed Lord Roxmouth if by so doing she could have saved any possible mischief occurring to John Walden through Roxmouth's malignancy. But the shuddering physical repulsion she felt at the bare contemplation of such a marriage was too strong for her.

"Anything but that!"—she said to herself, with something of a prayer—"O dear God!—anything but that!"

Sometimes God hears these little petitions which are not of the orthodox Church. Sometimes, as it seems, by a strange chance, the cry of a helpless and innocent soul does reach that vast Profound where all the secrets of life and destiny lie hidden in mysterious embryo. And thus it happens that across the din and bustle of our petty striving and restless disquietudes there is struck a sudden great silence, by way of answer,—sometimes it is the silence of Death which ends all sorrow,—sometimes it is the sweeter silence of Love which turns sorrow into joy.

Next day all the guests at the Manor had departed with the exception of three—Louis Gigue, and the 'Sisters Gemini,' namely, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby. With much gush and gratitude for a 'charming stay—a delightful time!' Lady Beaulyon and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay took leave of their 'dear Maryllia,' who received their farewells and embraces with an irresponsively civil coldness. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay 'motored' to London, undertaking with each other to keep up a speed of fifty miles an hour, provided there were not too many hills and not too much 'slowing down' for the benefit of unexpected policemen round corners. And at sunset, a pleasant peace and stillness settled on the Manor grounds, erstwhile disturbed by groups of restless persons walking aimlessly to and fro,—persons who picked flowers merely to throw them away again, and played tennis and croquet only to become quarrelsome and declare that the weather was much too hot for games. Everybody that was anybody had gone their ways,—and within her own domicile Mrs. Spruce breathed capaciously and freely, and said in confidence to the cook and to Primmins:

"Thank the Lord an' His mercies, that's all over! An' from what I hears, Miss Maryllia won't be wantin' no more London folks for a goodish bit o' time, an' we'll all 'ave peace to turn round an' look at ourselves an' find out whether we're sane or silly, for the two old leddies what is stayin' on give no trouble at all, an' that Mr. Gigg don't care what he gets, so long as he can bang away on the pianner an' make Miss Cicely sing, an' I will own she do sing lovely like the angels in a 'evenly 'ost, but there!—I don't want no more company, for what with French maids an' valets, all talkin' the wickedest stuff I ever heard about the ways an' doins o' their masters an' missises in London, I'm downright glad to be rid o' the whole lot! For do what we will, there is limits to patience, an' a peaceful life is what suits me best not knowin' for the past three weeks whether my 'ead or my 'eels is uppermost with the orderin' an' messin' about, though I will say Miss Maryllia knows what's what, an' ain't never in a fuss nor muddle, keepin' all wages an' bills paid reg'lar like a hoffice clerk, mebbe better, for one never knows whether clerks pays out what they're told or keeps some by in their own pockets, honesty not bein' always policy with the likes o' they. Anyway 'ere we are all alive an' none the worse for the bustle, which is a mercy, an' now mebbe we'll have time to think a bit as we go, an' stop worrittin' over plates an' dishes an' glass an' silver, which, say what we like, do sit on one like a burden when there's a many to serve. A bit o' quiet 'ull do us all good!"

The 'quiet' she thus eulogised was to be longer and lonelier than she imagined, but of this she knew nothing. The whole house was delightfully tranquil after the departure of the visitors, and the spirit of a grateful repose seemed to have imparted itself to its few remaining occupants. Louis Gigue played wonderful improvisations on the piano that evening, and Cicely sang so brilliantly and ravishingly that had she then stood on the boards of the Paris Grand Opera, she would have created a wild 'furore.' Lady Wicketts knitted placidly; she was making a counterpane, which no doubt someone would reluctantly decide to sleep under—and Miss Fosby embroidered a cushion cover for Lady Wicketts, who already possessed many of these articles wrought by the same hand. Maryllia occupied herself in writing many letters,—and all was peace. Nothing in any way betokened a change, or suggested the slightest interruption to the sun-lighted serenity of the long, lovely summer days.