Beth had made fifty pounds in eighteen months by her beautiful embroideries; but after her mother's death she did no more for sale, neither did she spend the money. She had suffered so many humiliations for want of money, it made her feel safer to have some by her. She gave herself up to study at this time, and wrote a great deal. It was winter now, and she was often driven down from her secret chamber to the dining-room by the cold. When Dan came in and found her at work, he would sniff contemptuously or facetiously, according to his mood at the moment. "Wasting paper as usual, eh? Better be sewing on my buttons," was his invariable remark. Not that his buttons were ever off, or that Beth ever sewed them on either. She was too good an organiser to do other people's work for them.

She made no reply to Dan's sallies. With him her mind was in a state of solitary confinement always—not a good thing for her health, but better on the whole than any attempt to discuss her ideas with him, or to talk to him about anything, indeed, but himself.

Beth fared well that winter, however—fared well in herself, that is. She had some glorious moments, revelling in the joy of creation. There is a mental analogy to all physical processes. Fertility in life comes of love; and in art the fervour of production is also accompanied by a rapture and preceded by a passion of its own. When Beth was in a good mood for work, it was like love—love without the lover; she felt all the joy of love, with none of the disturbance. When the idea of publication was first presented to her, it robbed her of this joy. As she wrote, she thought more of what she might gain than of what she was doing. Visions of success possessed her, and the ideas upon which her attention should have been fully concentrated were thinned by anticipations; and during that period her work was indifferent. Later, however, she worked again for work's sake, loving it; and then she advanced. She saw little of Dan in those days, and thought less; but when they met, she was, as usual, gentle and tolerant, patiently enduring his "cheeriness," and entering into no quarrel unless he forced one upon her.

One bright frosty morning he came in rather earlier than usual and found her writing in the dining-room.

"Well, I've had a rattling good ride this morning," he began, plunging into his favourite topic as usual without any pretence of interest in her or in her pursuits. "Nothing like riding for improving the circulation! I wish to goodness I could keep another horse. It would add to my income in the long run. But I'm so cursedly handicapped by those bills. They keep me awake at night thinking of them."

Beth sucked the end of her pencil and looked out of the window, wondering inwardly why he never tried to pay them.

"I calculate that they come to just three hundred pounds," he proceeded, looking keenly at Beth as he spoke; but she remained unmoved. "Don't you think," he ventured, "it would be a good thing to expend that three hundred pounds your mother left you on the debts? I know I could make money if I once got my head above water."

"That three hundred brings me in fifteen pounds a year," said Beth. "It is well invested, and I promised my mother not to touch any of my little capital. There is the interest, however, it arrived this morning. You can have that if you like."

"Well, that would be a crumb of comfort, at all events," he said, pouncing on the lawyer's letter, which was lying beside Beth on the table, and gloating on the cheque. "But don't you think, now that you have the interest, it would be a good time to sell and get the principal? Of course your mother was right and wise to advise you not to part with your capital; but this wouldn't be parting with it, because I should pay you back in time, you know. It would only be a loan, and I'd give you the interest on it regularly too; just think what a relief it would be to me to get those bills paid!" He ran his fingers up through his hair as he spoke, and gazed at himself in the glass tragically.

"Any news?" said Beth, after a little pause.

Dan, baffled, turned and began to walk up and down the room. "No, there never is any news in this confounded hole," he answered, venting his irritation on the place. "Oh, by the way, though, I am forgetting. I was at the Pettericks' to-day. That girl Bertha is not getting on as I should like."

"The hysterical one?" said Beth.

"Ye—yes," he answered, hesitating. "The one who threatened to be hysterical at one time. But that's all gone off. Now she's just weak, and she should have electricity; but I can't be going there every day to apply it—takes too much time: so I suggested to her people that she should come here for a while, as a paying patient, you know."

"And is she coming?" Beth said, rather in dismay.

"Yes, to-morrow," he replied. "I said you'd be delighted; but you must write and say so yourself, just for politeness' sake. It will be a good thing for you too, you know. You are too much alone, and she'll be a companion for you. She's not half a bad girl."

"Shall I be obliged to give her much of my time?" Beth asked lugubriously.

"Oh dear, no! She'll look after herself," Dr. Maclure cheerfully assured her. "I'll hire a piano for her. Must launch out a little on these occasions, you know. It's setting a sprat to catch a whale."

The piano arrived that afternoon. Beth wished Dan had let her choose it; but a piano of any kind was a delight. She had not had one since her marriage. Dan had said at first that a piano was a luxury which they must not think of when they could not afford the necessaries; and a luxury he had considered it ever since.

Bertha Petterick was not the kind of person that Beth would have chosen for a companion, and she dreaded her coming; but before Bertha had been in the house a week she had so enlivened it that Beth wondered she had ever objected to her. Bertha fawned upon Beth from the first, and was by way of looking up to her, and admiring her intellect. She was four or five years older than Beth, but gave herself no airs on that account. She was a dark girl, good looking in a common kind of way, with a masculine stride in her walk, a deep mannish voice; and not at all intellectual, but very practical: what some people consider a fine girl and others a coarse one, according to their taste. She was a good shot, could make a dress, cook a dinner, ride to hounds, and play any game; and she was what is called good-natured, that is to say, ready to do for any one anything that could be done on the spur of the moment. Things she might promise to do, or things requiring thought, she did not trouble herself about; but she would finish a pretty piece of work for Beth, gather flowers or buy them and do the table decorations, and keep things tidy in the sitting-rooms. She played and sang well, and was ready to do both at any time if she were asked, which was a joy to Beth; and her bright chatter kept Dan in a good humour, which was a relief. She had plenty of money, and spent it lavishly. Every time she went out she bought Beth something, a piece of music she had mentioned, a book she longed for, materials for work, besides flowers and fruit and sweets in unlimited quantities. Beth remonstrated, but Bertha begged Beth not to deprive her of the one pleasure she had in life just then, the pleasure of pleasing Beth, and of acknowledging what she never could repay but dearly appreciated—Beth's sisterly sympathy, her consistent kindness! Such sayings were tinged with sadness, which made Beth suspect that Bertha had some secret sorrow; but if so, it was most carefully concealed, for there was not a trace of it in her habitual manner. She showed no physical delicacy either; but then, as she said herself, she was picking up in such a wonderful way under the treatment, she really began to feel that there was very little the matter with her.

Dan managed to be at home a great deal to look after his patient, and was most attentive to her. He hired a brougham three times a week to do his rounds in, that she might accompany him, and so get the air without fatigue or risk of cold; and he would have her to sit with him in the dining-room when he was smoking, and rolled cigarettes for her; or would spend the evening with her in the drawing-room, listening to her playing and singing, or playing bezique with her, and seemingly well content, although in private he sometimes said to Beth it was all a beastly bore, but he must go through with it as a duty since he had undertaken it, it being his way to do a thing thoroughly if he did it at all.

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might," he added piously. "If a thing's worth doing at all, it's worth doing well, I always think."

That was his formula for the time being, but Beth judged him by his demeanour, which was gay, and not by his professions, and did not pity him. She was in excellent spirits herself, for her writing was going well; and it varied the monotony pleasantly for her to have Bertha to talk to, and walk, play, or sew with, after her work. Bertha's demonstrations of affection, too, were grateful to Beth, who had had so little love either bestowed upon her or required of her.

Bertha had been in the house three months, when one day her mother called, and found Beth alone, Dan and Bertha having gone for a drive together. Mrs. Petterick had just returned from abroad, where the whole family had been living most of the time that Bertha had been with the Maclures.

"Really," Mrs. Petterick said, "I don't know how to thank you for your kindness to my girl. She's quite a different person I can see by her letters, thanks to the good doctor. Before he took her in hand she was quite hysterical, and had to lie down two or three times a day, because she said she had no strength for anything. But really three months is an abuse of hospitality; and I think she should be coming home now."

"Oh no, do let her stay a little longer if you can spare her," Beth pleaded. "It is so nice to have her here."

"Well, it is good of you to say so," said Mrs. Petterick, "but it must be a great expense to you. We weren't well off ourselves at one time. Mr. Petterick's a self-made man, and I know that every additional mouth makes a difference. But, however, you being proud, I won't offend you by offering money in exchange for kindness, which can't be repaid, but shan't be forgotten."

When Mrs. Petterick had gone, Beth sat awhile staring into the fire. She was somewhat stunned, for Dan had assured her that Bertha was a paying patient, and that, it seemed, had been a gratuitous lie. She was roused at last by Minna, the parlour-maid. "Please, ma'am, a lady wishes to see you," Minna said.

"Show her in," Beth answered listlessly. But the next moment she stiffened with astonishment, for the lady who entered was Mrs. Kilroy of Ilverthorpe.

"I am afraid I have taken you by surprise," Mrs. Kilroy began rather nervously.

"Will you sit down?" Beth said coldly. "You cannot wonder if I am surprised to see you. This is the first visit you have paid me, although we met directly after I came to Slane some years ago. You were kind and cordial on that occasion, but the next time I saw you—at that ball—you slighted me; and after that you shunned me until I met you the other day at Mrs. Carne's, and then you seemed inclined to take me up again. I do not understand such caprices, and I do not like them."

"It was not caprice," Mrs. Kilroy assured her. "I liked you very much the first time we met, and I should have called immediately; but when I asked for your address, I was told that your husband was in charge of the Lock Hospital——"

"Yes, the hospital for the diseases of women," Beth said. "But what difference does that make?"

"It made me jump to the hasty conclusion that you approved of the degradation of your own sex," said Angelica.

"The degradation of my own sex!" said Beth bewildered. "What is a Lock Hospital?"

Angelica explained the whole horrible apparatus for the special degradation of women.

"Now perhaps you will understand what we felt about you," Angelica concluded—"we who are loyal to our own sex, and have a sense of justice—when we thought you were content to live on the means your husband makes in such a shameful way."

An extraordinary look of relief came into Beth's face. "Then it was not my fault—not because I was horrid," she exclaimed. All the slights were as nothing the moment she gathered that she had not deserved them. Angelica stared at her. But it was not in Beth's nature to think long about herself; only the full force of what she had just heard as it concerned others did not come to her for some seconds. When it did, she was overcome. "How could you suppose that I knew?" she gasped at last. "This is the first hint I have had of the loathsome business. My husband talks to me about—many things that he had better not have mentioned—but about this he has never said a word."

"Then he must have suspected that you would disapprove," said Mrs. Kilroy.

"Disapprove!" Beth ejaculated. "The whole thing makes me sick. I ought to have been told before I married him. I never would have spoken to a man in such a position had I known. You did well to avoid me."

"No," said Angelica. "I did ill, and I feel humiliated for my own want of penetration—for my hasty conclusion. It was Sir George Galbraith who first made me suspect that you knew nothing about it, and I would have come at once to make sure, but we were just leaving the neighbourhood, and we only returned yesterday. Ideala did not believe that you knew it either, and she rated us all for the way we had treated you. She has been in America ever since she met you at Mrs. Carne's, but she is coming home next week, and has written to entreat me to ask you to meet her. Will you? Will you come and stay with me? Do! and talk this over with us. I can see that it has been a great shock to you."

"I cannot answer you now," said Beth, "I must think—I must think what I had better do."

"Yes, think it over," said Angelica, "then write and tell me when you will come. Only do come. You will find yourself among friends—congenial friends, I venture to prophesy."

When Mrs. Kilroy had gone, Beth went to her bedroom, and waited there for Dan. It was the only place where she could be sure of seeing him alone. He dressed for dinner now that Miss Petterick was with them.

Dan came in whistling hilariously. He stopped short when he saw Beth's face.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Mrs. Kilroy has been here."

"I hope you thanked her for nothing!"

"I'm afraid I forgot to thank her at all," Beth said, "although she has put me under an obligation to her."

"May I ask what the obligation is?"

"She told me frankly why no decent woman will associate with us. It is not my fault after all, it seems, but yours—you and your Lock Hospital. It is against the Anglo-Saxon spirit to admit panders into society."

"Oh, she told you about that, did she, the meddling busybody!" he answered coolly. "I was afraid they would, some of them, damn them! and I knew you would go into hysterics. She didn't tell you the necessity for it, I suppose, nor the good it is doing; but I will; so just listen to me, then you'll see perhaps that I know more about it than these canting sentimentalists."

Beth, sitting in judgment on him, set her mouth and listened in silence until he stopped. In his own defence he gave her many revolting details couched in the coarsest language.

"But then, in the name of justice," she exclaimed, "what means do you take to protect those poor unfortunate women from disease? What do you do to the men who spread it? What becomes of diseased men?"

"Oh, they marry, I suppose. Anyhow, that is not my business. Doctors can't be expected to preach morals. Sanitation is our business."

"But aren't morals closely connected with sanitation?" Beth said. "And why, if sanitation is your business, do you take no radical measures with regard to this horrible disease? Why do you not have it reported, never mind who gets it, as scarlet fever, smallpox, and other diseases—all less disastrous to the general health of the community—are reported?"

Dan shrugged his shoulders. "It's a deuced awkward thing for a man to be suspected of disease. It's a stigma, and might spoil his prospects. Women are so cursedly prying nowadays. They've got wind of its being incurable, and many a one won't marry a man if a suspicion of it attaches to him."

"I see," said Beth. "The principles of the medical profession with regard to sanitation when women are in question seem to be peculiar. I wish to Heaven I had known them sooner." She hid her face in her hands, and suddenly burst into tears.

Dan scowled. "Well, this is nice!" he exclaimed. "I have had a devilish hard day's work, and come in cheery, as usual, to do my best to make things pleasant for you, and this is the reception I get! You're a nice pill, indeed!" He went off muttering into his dressing-room and slammed the door.

When he appeared in the drawing-room, he found Beth and Bertha chatting together as usual, and as, during the rest of the evening, he could detect no difference in Beth's manner, he congratulated himself that she was going to accept the position as inevitable, and say no more about it. It was not Beth's way to return to a disagreeable subject once it had been discussed, unless she meant to do something in the matter, and Dan conceived that there was nothing to be done in this instance. He considered that he was not the sort of man it was safe for women to interfere with, and he guessed she knew it!

He was mistaken, however, when he supposed that she had let the subject drop, and was going to resign herself to an invidious position. She was merely letting it lapse until she understood it. It was all as new to her as it was horrifying, and she required time to study both sides of the question. Her own sense of justice was too acute to let her accept at once the accusation that so-called civilised men, who boast of their chivalrous protection of the "weaker sex," had imposed upon women a special public degradation, while the most abandoned and culpable of their own sex were not only allowed to go unpunished, but to spread vice and disease where they listed. The iniquitous injustice and cruelty of it all made her sick and sorry for men, and reluctant to believe it.

A few days after Mrs. Kilroy's visit, Mrs. Carne called on Beth. Mrs. Carne always followed the county people. To her they were a sacred set. Her faith in all they did was touching and sincere. The stupidest remark of the stupidest county lady impressed her more than the most brilliant wit of a professional man's wife. When she stayed at a country-house, whatever the tone of it, she felt like a shriven saint, so uplifted was she by reverence for rank. On finding, therefore, that some of the most influential ladies in the county were diffidently anxious to win Beth into their set, rather than prepared to admit her with confident patronage, as Mrs. Carne would have expected, it was natural that she should revise her own opinion of Beth, and also seek to cultivate her acquaintance.

She called in the morning by way of being friendly; but Beth, who was hard at work at the time, did not feel grateful for the attention. Minna showed Mrs. Carne straight into the dining-room, where Beth usually worked now that Bertha was on the premises. Bertha happened to be out that morning, and Mrs. Carne surprised Beth sitting alone at a table covered with books and papers.

"And so the little woman is going to be a great one!" Mrs. Carne exclaimed playfully. "Well, I was surprised to hear it! I know I am not flattering to my own discernment when I say so; but there! I should never have supposed you were a genius. You are such a quiet little mouse, you know, you don't give yourself away much, if you will excuse the expression! I always say what I think."

"I hope you will not call me a genius again, Mrs. Carne," Beth said stiffly. "All exaggeration is distasteful to me."

"And to me, too, my dear child," Mrs. Carne hastened to assure her blandly. "But I always say what I think, you know."

Beth fixed her eyes on the clock absently.

When Dan came in to lunch that day, he seemed pleased to hear that Mrs. Carne had been.

"What had she to say for herself?" he asked.

"She said 'I always say what I think,'" Beth replied; "until it struck me that 'I always say what I think' is a person who only thinks disagreeable things."

"Well, I like her," said Dan; "and I always get on with her. If she's going to show up friendly at last, I hope you won't snub her. We can't afford to make enemies, according to your own account," he concluded significantly. "What do you think of her, Miss Petterick?" he added, by way of giving a pleasanter turn to the conversation. He and his patient always addressed each other with much formality. Beth asked him once in private why he was so stiff with Bertha, and he explained that he thought it wiser, as a medical man, not to be at all familiar; formality helped to keep up his authority.

"I have had no opportunity of thinking anything about her," Bertha rejoined. "She has never spoken to me. I have heard her speak, though, and like her voice. It's so cooing. She makes me think of a dove."

"And I shouldn't be surprised to find," said Beth, with cruel insight, "that, like the dove, she conceals a villainous disposition and murderous proclivities by charms of manner and a winning voice. What are you going to do this afternoon, Bertha?"

Bertha glanced at Dan. "I am going to read 'The Moonstone' out in the garden the whole afternoon," she replied.

"Then you won't mind if I disappear till tea-time?" said Beth. "I want to do some work upstairs."

"No, I would rather be alone," Bertha answered frankly. "That book's entrancing."

"I shall go round on foot this afternoon, for exercise," Dan announced as he left the room.

Beth saw Bertha settled on a seat in the garden, and then retired to her secret chamber. She had not yet come to any conclusion with regard to Mrs. Kilroy's invitation, and she felt it was time she decided. She took her sewing, her accustomed aid to thought, and sat down on a high chair near the window. She always sat on a high chair, that she might not be enervated by lolling; that was one of her patient methods of self-discipline; and while she meditated, she did quantities of work for herself, making, mending, remodelling, that she might get all the wear possible out of her clothes, and not add a penny she could help to those terrible debts, the thought of which had weighed on her youth, and threatened to crush all the spirit out of her ever since her marriage. Dan had never considered her too young to be worried.

From where she sat she could see Bertha on a seat just below, with "The Moonstone" on her lap, but Bertha could not see her because of the curtain of creepers that covered the iron rail which formed a little balcony round the window. Besides, it was supposed that that was a blank window. It was the only one on that side of the house, too, and Bertha had settled herself in that secluded corner of the garden precisely because she thought she could not be overlooked.

Beth glanced at her from time to time mechanically, but without thinking of her. It struck her at last, however, that Bertha had never opened her book, which seemed odd after the special point she had made of being left alone to read it undisturbed. Then Beth noticed that she seemed to be on the look-out, as if she were expecting something or somebody; and presently Dan appeared, walking quickly and with a furtive air, as if he were afraid of being seen. Bertha flushed crimson and became all smiles as soon as she saw him. Beth's work dropped on her lap, she clasped her hands on it, her own face flushed, and her breath became laboured. Dan, after carefully satisfying himself that there was nobody about, sat down beside Bertha, put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. She giggled, and made a feeble feint of protesting. Then he took a jewel-case from his pocket, opened it, and held it out to her admiring gaze. It contained a handsome gold bracelet, which he presently clasped on her arm. She expressed her gratitude by lifting up her face to be kissed. Then he put his arm round her again, and she sat with her head on his shoulder, and they began to talk; but the conversation was interrupted by frequent kisses.

Beth had seen enough. She turned her back to the window, and sat quite still with her hands clasped before her. It was her first experience of that parasite, the girl who fastens herself on a married woman, accepts all that she can get from her in the way of hospitality and kindness, and treacherously repays her by taking her husband for a lover. Beth pitied Bertha, but with royal contempt. It all seemed so sordid and despicable. Jealous she was not. "Jealousy is a want of faith in one's self," she had said to Bertha's mother once, and now, in the face of this provocation, she was of the same mind. She had no words to express her scorn for a man who is false to his obligations, nor for the petty frauds and deceits which had made the position of those two tenable. As for Dan, he was beneath contempt; but—"I shall succeed!" The words sprang to her lips triumphantly. "Let him wallow with his own kind in congenial mire as much as he likes. No wonder he suspects me! But I—I shall succeed!"

Meanwhile down in the garden Dan was gurgling to Bertha: "What should I do without you, darling? Life wasn't worth having till I knew you. I won't say a word against Beth. She has her good points, as you know, and I believe she means well; but she's spoilt my life, and my career too. I'm one that requires a lot of sympathy; but she never shows me any. She thinks of nobody but herself. Her own mother always said so. And after all I've done for her too! If only you knew! But of course I can't blow my own trumpet. They're all alike in that family, though. Her mother used to keep me playing cards till I was ruined. And Beth has no gratitude, and you can't trust her. She comes of a lying lot, and I'm of the same mind as my old father, who used to say he'd rather have a thief any day than a liar. You can watch a thief, but you can't watch a liar."

"Still, Dan," Bertha murmured, "I somehow think you ought to stick to her."

"So I would," said Dan. "No one can accuse me of not sticking to my duty. I'm an honourable man. It was she who cast me off. I'm nothing to her. And I should have been broken-hearted but for you, Bertha, I should indeed." Dan's fine eyes filled with tears, which Bertha tenderly wiped away.

"Of course it makes a great difference her having cast you off," Bertha conceded, after a little interlude.

"It makes all the difference," Dan rejoined. "She set me at liberty, and you are free too; so who have we to consider but ourselves? I admire a woman who has the pluck to be free!" he added enthusiastically.

"Then why don't you encourage Beth more to go her own way?" Bertha reasonably demanded. "She's always yearning for a career."

Dan hesitated. "Because I've been a fool, I think," he said at last. "I'll encourage her now, though. It would be a great blessing to us if she could get started as a writer. I see that now. She'd think of nothing else. And it would be a blessing to her too," he added feelingly.

"That's what I like about you, Dan," Bertha observed. "You always make every allowance for her, and consider her interests, although she has treated you badly."

Dan pressed her hand to his lips. "I'll do what I can for her, you may be sure," he said, quite melted by his own magnanimity. "I wish I could do more. But she's been extravagant, and my means are dreadfully crippled."

"Then why do you buy me such handsome presents, you naughty man?" Bertha playfully demanded, holding up her arm with the bracelet on it.

"I must have a holiday sometimes," he rejoined. "Besides, I happen to be expecting a handsome cheque, an unusual occurrence, by any post now."

Beth's dividends were due that day.

Just as dinner was announced, Beth swept into the drawing-room in the best evening dress she had, a diaphonous black, set off by turquoise velvet, a combination which threw the beautiful milk-white of her skin into delicate relief. There was a faint flush on her face; on her forehead and neck the tendrils of her soft brown hair seemed to have taken on an extra crispness of curl, and her eyes were sparkling. She had never looked better. Bertha Petterick, in her common handsomeness, was as a barmaid accustomed to beer beside a gentlewoman of exceptional refinement. She wore the showy bracelet Dan had given her that afternoon, and it shone conspicuous in its tawdry newness on her arm; her dress was tasteless too, and badly put on, and altogether she contrasted unfavourably with Beth, and Dan observed it.

"Are you expecting any one in particular to-night?" he asked.

"No," Beth answered smiling. "I dressed for my own benefit. Nothing moves me to self-satisfaction like a nice dress. I have not enjoyed the pleasure much since I married. But I am going to begin now, and have a good time."

She turned as she spoke and led the way to the dining-room alone. Dr. Maclure absently offered his arm to Miss Petterick. He was puzzled to know what this sudden fit of self-assertion, combined with an unaccountable burst of high spirits on Beth's part, might portend. To conceal a certain uneasiness, he became extra facetious, not to say coarse. There was a public ball coming off in a few days, and he persisted in speaking of it as "The Dairy Show."

"Don't you begin to feel excited about it? I do!" Miss Petterick said to Beth. "I wish it were to-night."

"I am indifferent," Beth answered blandly, "because I am not going."

"Not going!" Dan exclaimed. "Then who's to chaperon me?"

"I should scarcely suppose," Beth answered, looking at him meditatively, "that you are in the stage of innocence which makes a chaperon necessary. Bertha, how you are loving that new bracelet! You've done nothing but fidget with it ever since we sat down."

"Ah!" Bertha answered archly, "you want to know where I got it, Madam Curious! Well, I'll tell you. It was sent me only to-day—by my young man!"

Dan looked at his plate complacently, but presently Beth saw a glance of intelligence flash between them—a glance such as she had often seen them exchange before, but had not understood; and she was thankful that she had not!—thankful that she had been able to live so long with Dr. Maclure without entertaining a single suspicion, without thinking one low thought about him. It was a hopeful triumph of cultivated nice-mindedness over the most evil communications.

When they were at dessert, the postman's knock resounded sharply. Dr. Maclure, who had been anxiously listening for it, and was peeling a pear for Miss Petterick at the moment, waited with the pear and the knife upheld in his hands, watching the door till the servant entered. She brought a letter on a salver, and was taking it to her master, when Beth said authoritatively, "That letter is for me, Minna; bring it here."

The girl obeyed.

Dan put down the knife and the pear. "What's yours is mine, I thought," he observed, with a sorry affectation of cheeriness.

"Not on this occasion," Beth answered quietly, taking up the letter and opening it as she spoke. "This happens to be peculiarly my own."

"Why, it's a cheque," he rejoined, with an affectation of surprise. "What luck! I haven't been able to sleep for nights thinking of the butcher's bill."

"For shame!" Beth said, bantering—"talking about bills before your guest! But since you introduced the subject I may add that the butcher must wait. I want this myself. I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy at Ilverthorpe on Wednesday, and it will just cover my expenses."

"This is the first I have heard of the visit," Dan ejaculated.

"I only decided to go this afternoon," Beth replied.

"You decided without consulting me? Well—I'm damned if you shall go; I shall not allow it."

"The word 'allow' is obsolete in the matrimonial dictionary, friend Daniel," Beth rejoined good-humouredly.

"But you are bound to obey me."

"And I'm ready to obey you when you endow me with all your worldly goods," she said; then, suddenly dropping her bantering tone, she spoke decidedly: "I am going to stay with Mrs. Kilroy on Wednesday, understand that at once, and do not let us have any vulgar dispute about it."

"But you can't leave Miss Petterick here alone with me!" he remonstrated.

"No, but she can go home," Beth answered coolly. "Her mother wants her, you know, and I have written to tell her to expect her to-morrow. Now, if you please, we will end the discussion."

She put the letter in her pocket, and began to crack nuts and eat them. But Dan could not keep away from the subject. "Gad!" he ejaculated, "I thought they'd get hold of you, that lot, and flatter you, and make a convenience of you—that's what they do! I know them! They think you're clever—how easy it is to be mistaken! But you'll see for yourself in time, and then you'll believe me—when it's too late. For then you'll have got your name mixed up with them, and you'll not get over that, I can tell you—they are well known for a nice lot. Your Mrs. Kilroy was notorious before she married. She was Angelica Hamilton-Wells, and she and her brother were called the Heavenly Twins. They are grandchildren of that blackguard old Duke of Morningquest. Nobody ever speaks of any of the family with the slightest respect. It's well known that Miss Hamilton-Wells asked old Kilroy to marry her, and when a girl has to do that, you may guess what she is! But they are all besmirched, that lot," Dan concluded with his most high-minded manner on.

"I never believe anything I hear against anybody," said Beth, unconsciously quoting Ideala; "so please spare me the recital of all invidious stories."

"You'll only believe what suits yourself, I know," he said. "And I've no doubt you'll enjoy yourself. Galbraith will be there, and Mr. Theodore Hamilton-Wells, the fair-haired 'Diavolo,' who will suit your book exactly, I should think."

"I beg your pardon?" said Beth politely.

Dan poured himself out another glass of wine, and said no more.

He and Bertha managed to have a moment's conversation together before they retired that night.

"What does it mean?" Bertha anxiously demanded. "Does she suspect anything?"

"God knows!" Dan said piously, then added, after a moment's consideration, "How the devil can she? We've played our cards too well for that! No, she's just bent on making mischief; that's the kind of pill she is. If she keeps that money it will be downright robbery. But now you see what I have to put up with, and you can judge for yourself if I deserve it."

When he went to Beth, however, he assumed a very different tone. He entered the room with an air of deep dejection, and found her sitting beside her dressing-table in a white wrapper, reading quietly. She smiled when she saw his pose. It was what she had expected.

"I can't do without that money, Beth, on my word," he began plaintively. "I've been reckoning on it. I wouldn't take it from you, God knows, if I could help it; but I'm sore pressed." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, imagining that he still had to deal with the gentle sensitive girl, upon whom he had imposed so long and so successfully.

Beth watched him a moment with contempt, and then she laughed.

"It is no use, friend Daniel," she said in her neat, incisive, straightforward way. "I am not going to take you seriously any more. I am neither to be melted by your convenient tears, nor dismayed by your bogey bills. I have never seen any of those bills, by the way; the next time you mention them, please produce them. Let us be business-like. And in the meantime, just understand, once for all, like a good man, that I am not going to be domineered over by you as if I were a common degraded wife with every spark of spirit and self-respect crushed out of me by one brutal exaction or another. I shall do my duty—do my best to meet your reasonable wishes; but I will submit to no ordering and no sort of exaction." She rose and faced him. "And as we are coming to an understanding," she pursued, "just explain. Why did you tell me that Miss Petterick was to be a paying patient?"

"I never told you anything of the kind," said Dan, losing his head, and lying stupidly in his astonishment.

Beth shrugged her shoulders. "It is your own business," she rejoined—"at least it is you who will have to pay for her entertainment."

She returned to her book as she spoke, and continued to read with apparent calmness.

Now that she had taken up her position, she found herself quite strong enough to hold it against any Dan Maclure or Bertha Petterick. But Beth was being forced into an ugly and vulgar phase, and she knew and resented it, and was filled with dismay. She was taking on something of the colour of her surroundings involuntarily, inevitably, as certain insects do, in self-defence. She had spoken to Dan in his own tone in order to make him understand her; but was it necessary? Surely if she had resisted the impulse to try that weapon, she might have found another as effective, the use of which would not have compromised her gentlehood and lessened her self-esteem. Her dissatisfaction with herself for the part she had played was a cruel ache, and she thanked Heaven for the chance which would mercifully remove her from that evil atmosphere for a while, and prayed for time to reflect, for strength to be her better self. She was angry with herself, and grieved because she had fought Dan with his own weapons, and it did not occur to her for her comfort that she had only done so because he was invulnerable to that which she would naturally have used—earnest, reasonable, calm discussion—and that fight him she must with something, somehow, or sink for ever down to the degraded level required of their wives by husbands of his way of thinking.