Next day Willy called at the studio, and Frank told him what had occurred.

“But I don't see why you shouldn't come to the Manor House,” said Willy. “If you will only say something about the Measons, I think it can be made all right.”

“No, I'm not going to turn against Meason; I have always found him a good fellow. I know nothing about his flirtation with Sally.”

“No more do I; I think it has been exaggerated, but, as you know, I never interfere. I wish you would come in to dinner one night.”

“Supposing I were to meet Berkins?”

Willy stroked his moustache.

“No, it is quite impossible that I could return to the Manor House. Your father behaved in a way—well, I will not say what I think of it.”

“Berkins hasn't been to the City since. Grace was over here yesterday, she says he limps about the garden. He'll never forgive you; he says that you didn't call the dog off at once.”

“That's a lie; and I said, 'So far as the incident with the dog is concerned, I am very sorry.'”

“I think that made him more angry than anything else; he thought you were laughing at him.”

“I was not. It was most unfortunate. I shall not give Maggie up. I am writing to-morrow or next day to Mount Rorke.”

All were agreed that things must come right sooner or later. Maggie fought for her lover, and emphatically asserted her engagement. She yielded on one point only—not to visit the studio; but she maintained her right in theory and in practice to go where she liked with him in train or in cart, to walk with him on the cliff, to lunch with him at Mutton's. They found pleasure in thus affirming their love, and it pleased them to see they were observed, and to hear that they were spoken about. Nevertheless the string that sung their happiness had slipped a little, and the note was now not quite so clear or true. Frank could not go to the Manor House; Maggie could not go to the studio. Whether Mount Rorke would consent to their marriage perplexed them as it had not done before.

The summer fades, the hills grow grey, and a salt wind blew up from the sea, blackening the trees, and the beauty of autumn was done. Frank thought of Ireland, and what personal intercession might achieve. She begged of him to go, and he promised to write to her every day.

“Every day, darling, or I shall be miserable.”

“Every day.”

“Arrived safe after a very rough passage. Every one was ill, I most of all.”

She received a post-card:—“It was raining cats and dogs when I got out of the train. Mount Rorke sent a car to meet me; the result is that I am in bed with a bad cold. The house is full of company—people I have known, or known of, since I was a boy; we shall begin pheasant-shooting in a few days. When I am out of bed I shall write a long letter. Do you write to me; I shall be awfully disappointed if I do not get a letter to-morrow morning.”

Extract from a letter:—

“Mount Rorke is considered to be a handsome place, but as I have known it from childhood, as my earliest memories are of it, I cannot see it with the eyes of a professed scenery hunter. I have loved it always, but I do not think I ever loved it more than now, for now I think that one day I shall give it to you. Should that day come—and it will come—what happiness it will be to walk with you under the old trees, made lovelier by your presence, to pass down the glades to the river, watching your shadow on the grass and your image in the stream. We will roam together through the old castle, and I will show you the little bed I used to sleep in, the school-room where I learned my lessons. When I entered the old room I saw in imagination—and oh, how clearly!—the face of my governess; and how easily I see her in the corridor she used to walk down to get to her room.

“Poor, dear, old thing, I wonder what has become of her!

“I saw again the pictures that stirred my childish fancy, and whose meaning I once vainly strove to decipher.

“I came to live here when I was four, immediately after my father's death. I can just remember coming here. I remember Mount Rorke taking me up in his arms and kissing me. I will not say there is no place like home—I do not believe that; but certainly no place seems so real. Every spot of ground has its own particular recollections. Every bend of the avenue evokes some incident of childish life (in Ireland we call any road leading to a house an avenue, even if it is absolutely bare of trees; we also speak of rooks as crows, and these two provincialisms jarred on my ear after my long stay in Sussex). Mount Rorke is covered with trees—great woods of beech and fir—and at the end of every vista you see a piece of blue mountain. A river passes behind the castle, winding through the park; there are bridges, and swans float about the sedges, and there are deer in the glades. The garden,—I do not know if you would like the garden; it is old-fashioned—full of old-fashioned flowers—convolvuluses, Michaelmas daisies, marigolds; hedges clipped into all sorts of strange and close shapes. There is a beautiful avenue behind the garden (an avenue in the English sense of the word) where you may pace to and fro and feel an exquisite sense of solitude; for when the castle had passed out of the hands of Irish princes—that is to say, brigands—it was turned into a monastery, and I often think, as I look on the mossy trees—the progeny of those under whose leafage the monks told their beads—that all happened that I might throw my arm about you some beautiful day, and whisper, 'My wife, this is yours.'”

“How beautifully he writes,” said Sally reflectively.

“You never had a lover who wrote to you like that. Do you remember how Jimmy used to write?”

“I don't know how he wrote to you, but his letters to me, I will say that, were quite as nice as anything Frank could write. You needn't toss your head, you are not Lady Mount Rorke yet.”

Sally refused to hear, but presently, seeing a cloud on her sister's face, and thinking the letter contained some piece of unpleasantness, she relented, and pressed her to continue.

“No, I shan't, you are too insulting.”

“Who began it? You told me that I didn't get such nice letters as you. Pray go on.”

“I do not know if you would think her handsome. I don't. She is, however, an excellent musician; we play duets together every evening, to Mount Rorke's intense delight. You know my dialogue between a lady and a gentleman? She has written it down for me and corrected a few mistakes; I think I shall publish it. Darling, I love you better than any one in the world; you are all the world to me; try to love me a little—you will never find any one to love you as I do.”

“Well, you can't find anything peculiarly disagreeable to say about that, I think.”

Extract from another letter:—

“All the visitors have gone; Mount Rorke and I are quite alone. He is kindness itself, and does not bother me about his memoirs; but from what I hear that book will make one of the biggest sensations ever made in the literary world. I want him to publish it now, but he only smiles and shakes his head. He says: 'What is the use of setting the world talking about you when you are alive; as long as I am alive I can see those I want to see, and be with them far more personally than I could by placing in their hands three volumes in 8vo; the 8vos are only useful when you have passed into darkness, and are not yet reconciled to dying quite out of the minds of men. I do not desire to be remembered by those who will live three hundred years hence, but I confess that I should like to modulate the pace of forgetfulness according to my fancy, and be remembered, let us say, for the next sixty or seventy years. I find no fault with death but its abruptness, and that I hope to be able to correct. The vulgar and most usual plan is children, but children are no anodyne to oblivion, whereas a good book in a certain measure is.'

“These are almost the words Mount Rorke used, and I quote them as exactly as possible, so that you may see what kind of man he is. We pulled our chairs round to the fire and had a real good talk. I know no better company than Mount Rorke. He has seen everything, read everything, and known everybody worth knowing; he is a mine of information, and, what is far better, he is a complete man of the world; and long contact with the world has left him a little cynical, otherwise he is perfect. I told him the story about Berkins, and he laughed; I never saw him laugh so before; and when I told him that I had told Berkins, as he was tying up his leg, that so far as the incident with the dog was concerned, I regretted deeply what had occurred, he could not contain himself. He rang the bell, and we had old Triss up. He asked a great deal about you; I leave you to imagine what I said. How did he expect me to describe my darling? I told him of your subtle, fascinating ways, of your picturesque attitudes, and your exquisite little black eyes. 'I think I see her,' he said; 'little eyes that light up are infinitely more interesting than those big, limpid, silly eyes that everybody admires.' I am now doing a water-colour sketch from the photograph—the one in which you stand with your hands behind your back and your head on one side—for him. I am getting on with it pretty well. Ah! if only I had you here for an hour (I should like to have you here for ever, of course; but now I am speaking artistically, not humanly), I think I could get it really like you; there are one or two things that the photo does not give me. I shall send the sketch to Dublin to be framed; it will be a nice present for Mount Rorke.

“My darling, you must not be anxious; all will come right in time—have a little patience. He is already much more reconciled to the match than he was when I arrived, and if your father will refrain from speaking too much about that hateful question, I am sure that all difficulties can be surmounted.”

She wrote to him three or four times a week, and on beautiful hand-made paper, delicately scented.

Extract from a letter:—

“We went up to town yesterday by the ten o'clock train West Brighton; and so that we might have more money to spend, we went third class. Father doesn't like us going third class, but I don't think it matters if you get in with nice people. We were very jolly. The Shaws went with us. They are very nice girls. They had to leave us at Victoria, and I and my cousin, Agnes Keating, went shopping together. We met the Harrisons at Russell & Allen's. We saw there some lovely dresses—I wish you had been with us, for I have confidence in your taste, and when I choose a thing myself I am never sure that I like it. The assistant was so polite; she told me to ask for Miss ——; she said she would like to fit me. Sally was coming up with us, but she changed her mind and remained at home, I was very glad, for she is wretchedly cross, and not looking at all well. You would not admire her in the least; she is growing very yellow. But I don't mean to be ill-natured, so we'll let Sally bide, as we say in Sussex. After Russell & Allen's we went to Blanchard's, and had a nice lunch. Grace was in town; she chaperoned us, and paid for everything; it was very kind of her. Then we went to the theatre, and saw a play which we did not care about much. There was a very stupid 'tart' in it. I do like 'gadding,' don't I? But, oh, my darling Frank, gadding is not really gadding without you. How I miss you, how we all miss you, but I especially. The Keatings came over to tea to-day, and they asked about you. Blanche wants you to write something in her album, and she admired immensely the drawing you gave me. She is very artistic in her tastes; I think you would like her.

“But I have a bit of news that I think will amuse you. You remember Mrs. Horlock's old dog—not the blind Angel; he's old too. But I mean the real old dog,—the one twenty years old, that once belonged to a butcher. He never smelt very sweet, as you know, but latterly he was unbearable, and the General resolved on a silent and secret destruction. He purchased in Brighton a bottle of chloroform. It was the dead of the night and pitch dark. However, he reached the end of the passage in safety; but suddenly he uttered a fearful shriek and dropped the chloroform. He thought he had seen a ghost; but it was only Mrs. Horlock, who was going her rounds, letting down the mouse-traps and supplying the little creatures with food. The General blurted out various excuses. He said that he had come to relieve the cock parrot's tooth-ache—that he feared the Circassian goat was suffering from spinal complaint and the squirrels from neuralgia. But his protestations proved unavailing, and now he eats his meals in silence. And to make matters worse, the old dog did die a few days after—the General says from old age, but Mrs. Horlock avows that his death resulted from fright. 'He was a sweet, cunning old thing, and no doubt knew all about that plan to destroy him.' I think this would make an excellent subject for a comic sketch; I wish you would do one—the General dropping the bottle; Mrs. Horlock, surrounded by closed mouse-traps and crumbs, sternly upbraiding him.

“I see lots of Emily Pierce. Every Sunday I have tea with her, and sometimes lunch; but she doesn't come here. I am afraid I couldn't get on at all without her; we do everything together, and we hit it off so well.

“Sally has been staying in Kent. I do not know what's up, but she seems to see everything couleur de rose; everything in Kent is better in her estimation than anywhere else. The men dance so much better for one thing. I am glad she is so happy, and I wish she would get married and stay there. Father says he has a cough that tears him to pieces, but I haven't heard it yet.”

The elementary notion of a woman in love is to surround, to envelop the man she loves, with her individuality, and to draw him from all other influences. And the woman in love strives to accomplish this by ceaseless reiteration of herself or himself seen through herself. So Maggie with her nervous, highly-strung, febrile temperament could not refrain from constantly striking the lyre of love. Her hands were for ever on the chords. Letters and notes of all kinds; impetuous messages asking him when he would return; letters apologising for her selfishness—he had better remain with Mount Rorke until his consent had been obtained; resolutions and irresolutions, ardours, lassitudes, forgetfulness followed fast in strange and incomprehensible contradiction. And Frank was asked daily to perform some small task. There was always something; and Frank undertook all he was asked to do, for he loved to be as much as possible in that circle of life in which his sweetheart lived, and to feel her presence about him.

Extract from a letter:—

“Mount Rorke and I had a long and serious talk about you last night. He is against the marriage, but then he is against marriage in general. He said with his quiet, cynical laugh, 'I daresay she is a pretty girl—I can read the truth through your romantic descriptions. I am convinced that she is very charming. But are you quite sure that you will never meet another equally charming girl? Remember the world is a very big place, and the stock of women is large; are you sure that you will be able to enjoy the charm which now rules and enchants you for thirty, forty years without wearying of it? These are the questions you have to consider, which marriage entails.' I need hardly tell you what answer I made, and how I tried to convince him that your charms are those that a man capable of appreciating them could not weary of. Indeed I think I made him rather a neat answer—I said there are books in one volume, in two volumes, in three volumes, and there are books that you can take down and read at any time. He laughed; it rather tickled his fancy. And he said, 'Quite true, there are some books and some women that one never tires of—that is to say, that some people never tire of. I haven't been so fortunate or unfortunate, but that by the way. I admit such cases may occur. I will go further—I will admit that a man's life may be made or marred by his taking to himself a wife; and if Miss Brookes were a really nice girl—if she were the one girl in a million, and if I were sure that your passion for each other has its root in deeper and more lasting sympathies than those of the skin (these were his exact words)—believe me, my dear Frank, I should not think of opposing the marriage. I shall be in London during the season, and no doubt an occasion will arise, of which I promise you to avail myself, of making this model young lady's acquaintance. I will tell you what I think of her; she won't deceive me, let her try how she will. There is only one thing I bar—one thing must not be, one thing I will not tolerate—a bad marriage.' I lost my temper for a moment, but Mount Rorke did not lose his, and I soon came round. It is annoying to be spoken to in that way; but I remembered that he had not seen you, and I consoled myself by thinking of how great his conversion will be when he does. My only fear is that he'll want to marry you himself. So, you see, my own darling, my uncle is on the 'give,' and we shall win soon and easily. The only real obstacle is your father's pig-headedness on all matters in which money enters. I think with terror of his meeting with Mount Rorke. If he speaks to Mount Rorke as he spoke to me, my uncle will take up his hat and wish him good-morning. Do you exert all your influence. Do leave no stone unturned. All depends upon you.”

Extract from another letter:—

“I am weary of this place, and I long to see you. My longing is such that I can resist it no longer. Besides, nothing would be gained by remaining here. Mount Rorke will not say more than he has said. In a few days—think of that—I shall be with you. With what eagerness I look forward. How gladly I shall see the train leave the dreary bogs and the blue mountains of the West and pass into the pasture lands of Meath; how gladly I shall hail the brown, slobber-faced city of Dublin; with what delight I shall step on board the packet—I shall not think of sea sickness—and watch the line of the low coast disappear, then the Welsh mountains and castles, looking so like an illustrated history of England. I must spend two days in London, alas! I must order some new clothes. Victoria Station, with all its doors and cab stands, and book-stalls, the Sussex scenery, the woodlands, the Downs, the plunging through tunnels, and then you. Darling, I cannot believe that such happiness is in store for me.”

All happened as he had anticipated. At Victoria the usual difficulties had arisen about the dog. Triss was growling, the guard was cringing, and, with reference to no stoppage before we come to Redhill, the necessity of a muzzle was being argued.

“I am certain it is she,” and he followed with his eyes the tall, swinging figure in the black cloth dress. Then he saw the clear plump profile, so white, of Lizzie Baker.

“Here, give me the chain, I'll tie the dog up.”

“But the muzzle, sir.”

A muzzle was procured, and Frank ran to the third class carriage where he had seen Lizzie enter.

“Lizzie! Lizzie!”

“Oh, Mr. Escott, who would have thought of seeing you! It is such a time—”

“Yes, isn't it; how long? But are you going to Brighton?”

“Yes.”

“So am I; but—let me get you a first-class ticket. Guard, have I time to change my ticket?”

“No, sir, the train is going to start; get in.”

“Do you get out, Lizzie; I'll pay the difference at Brighton.”

“No time for changing now, sir; are you getting into this carriage?”

He could not forego the pleasure of being with Lizzie. An old woman with a provision basket on her lap drew her skirts aside and made way for him; there were three dirtily dressed girls—probably shop girls; they sat whispering together, a little troubled by the publicity; there were two youths, shabbily dressed, their worn boots and trousers covered with London mud. He was surprised, and he did not for a moment understand or realise his company. Frank had never been in a third-class carriage before.

“I'm afraid you won't be comfortable here.”

“Oh, yes, I shall; I'd just as soon travel in one class as another—much sooner when it means being with you.”

“None of your nonsense; I see you haven't changed. Well, who'd have thought it? Just fancy meeting you, and after all this time.”

“How long is it? It must be nearly two years. I haven't seen you sincethat day we went up the river.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No; where did I see you since?”

“At the bar; I didn't leave the 'Gaiety' for several days after.”

“No more you did; I remember now. But why did you leave without letting me know where you were going?”

“I didn't know I was leaving till the morning, and I left in the afternoon. A lot of us were changed suddenly. The firm couldn't get enough young ladies to do the work at the Exhibition.”

“But you didn't leave an address.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn't; I asked the manager, and he told me you had left no address. They didn't know where you had gone.”

“Did he say so? You mean Mr. Fairlie, I suppose—now I come to think of it, it is the rule of the firm not to give information about the young ladies. I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I am, really. We had a very pleasant day up the river—Reading; you took me to Reading.”

“Yes; but you would never come again.”

“Wouldn't I? I suppose I couldn't find time—I did enjoy myself. What a lovely day it was.”

“Yes; and do you remember how like a beautiful smile the river lay? And do you remember the bulrushes? I rowed you in among the rushes; you wet the sleeve of your dress plunging your arm in. I remember it, that white plump arm.”

“Get along with you.”

“I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had.”

“I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was so cross with you because you said I hadn't wiped the glass. It was all done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don't you remember?”

“Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you from coming out with me again.”

“No, it wasn't; but don't speak so loud, all these people are listening to you.”

Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant curiosity of the old woman, he said—

“Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening, passing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of the woods where we climbed and looked into space over the railing?”

“At the green-table—don't you remember?”

“Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the 'Roebuck.'”

“You haven't spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something—I forget what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you.”

“I dined with her one night, and we went to the theatre.”

“You may do that without it being said that you are making up to a gentleman.”

“Of course; I should never think of saying you made up to me.”

“I should hope not, indeed.”

“I should never think of accusing you of having made up to me; you have always treated me very badly.”

Lizzie did not answer. He looked at her, puzzled and perplexed, and he hoped that neither the girls nor the old lady had understood.

“I am sorry; I really didn't mean to offend you. All I meant to say was that the lady we saw at the 'Roebuck' had been rather civil to me; had—well I don't know how to put it—shown an inclination to flirt with me—will that suit you?—and that I had not availed myself of my chances because I was in love with you.”

Encouraged by a sunny smile, Frank continued: “You wouldn't listen to me; you were very cruel.”

“I am sure I didn't mean to be cruel; I went out on the river with you, and we had a very pleasant day. You didn't say then I was cruel.”

“No, you were very nice that day; it was the happiest day of my life. I was in love with you; I shall never care for any one as I cared for you.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I swear it is true. When you left the 'Gaiety' I searched London for you. If you had only cared for me we might have been very happy. As sure as a fellow loves a woman, so sure is she to like some other chap. Tell me, why did you go away and leave no address?”

“I did leave an address.”

“Well, we won't discuss that. Why didn't you write to me? You knew my address. It's no use saying you didn't.”

“Well, I suppose I was in love with some one else.”

“Were you? You always denied it. Ah! so you were in love with some one else? I knew it—I knew it was that thick-set fellow with the black moustache. I wonder how you could like him—the amount of whisky and water he used to drink.”

“Yes, usen't he? I have served him with as many as six whiskies in an afternoon—Irish, he always drank Irish.”

“How could you like a man who drank?”

“But it wasn't he—I assure you; I give you my word of honour. It really wasn't. I'd tell you if it was.”

“Well, who was it, then? It couldn't be the old man with the beard and white teeth?”

“No.”

“Was it that great tall fellow, clean shaven?”

“No, it wasn't; you'll never guess; There's no use trying. However, it is all over now.”

“Why? Did he treat you badly? Whose fault was it?”

“His. And the chances I threw away. He behaved like a beast. I had to give up keeping company with him.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don't know. He changed very much towards me lately; he went messing about after other girls, and we had words, and I left.”

“You will make it up. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Mistaken—no; I found their letters in his pocket.”

“There are always rows between sweethearts; and then they kiss and make it up, and love each other the more.”

“No, I shall not see him again. We were going to be married; no, it is all over. It was a little hard at first, but I am all right now.”

“I am sorry. Do you think there is no chance of making it up?”

“I should have thought that you would be glad; men are so selfish they never think of any one but themselves.”

“How do you mean? Why should I be glad that your marriage was broken off?”

“You said just now that you liked me very much, I thought—”

“So I do like you very much. Once I was in love with you—that day when we walked up the steep woods together.”

“And you don't care for me any longer?”

“I don't say that; but I am engaged to be married.”

“Oh!”

“Had you not snubbed me so I might have been married to you.”

“Who are you going to be married to—to the lady we saw that day?”

“Oh, no, not to her.”

“I don't believe you. You mean to say you haven't been to see her since.”

“I assure you—-”

“You mean to say you haven't seen her?”

“I don't say that. I've just come from Ireland. I've been staying with my uncle. She spent a week with us; that's all I have seen of her. I am going now to see the young lady whom I am engaged to.”

“And when will you be married?”

“I don't know; there are a great many difficulties in the way. Perhaps I shall never marry her.”

“Nonsense. I know better. You think it will take me in. I'll never be taken in again, not if I know it.”

“I don't want to take you in.”

“I don't know so much about that. Is she very pretty? I suppose you are very much in love with her?”

“Yes, I love her very much. Dark, not like you a bit—just the opposite.”

“And you met her since you saw me?”

“No.”

“Ah, I thought as much, and yet you told me the day we went up the river together that you never had and couldn't care for any one elsebut me. Men are all alike—they never tell the truth.”

“Wait a minute; wait a minute. I knew her long before I knew you; I have known her since I was a boy, but that doesn't mean that I have been in love with her since I was a boy. I never thought of her until you threw me over, until long after; it was last summer I fell in love with her.”

Lizzie's eyes were full upon him, and it seemed to them that each could see and taste the essence of the other's thought.

“What have you been doing ever since? You have told me nothing about yourself.”

“Well, after trying vainly to find you—having searched, as I thought, all Speirs and Pond's establishments in London, I tried to resign myself to my fate. I assure you, I was dreadfully cut up—could do nothing. My life was a burden to me. You have been in love, and you know what an ache it is; it used to catch me about the heart. There was no hope; you were gone—gone as if the earth had swallowed you. I got sick of going to the 'Gaiety' and asking those girls if they knew anything about you; so to cure myself I went to France, and I worked hard at my painting. In such circumstances there is only one thing—work.”

“You are right.”

“Yes; nothing does you any good but work. I worked in the atelier—that's the French for studio—all the morning, and in the afternoon I painted from the nude in a public studio. I had such a nice studio—such a jolly little place. I was up every morning at eight o'clock, my model arrived at nine, and I worked without stopping (barring the ten or twelve minutes' rest at the end of every hour) till twelve. Then I went to the cafe to have breakfast—how I used to enjoy those breakfasts—fried eggs all swimming in butter, a cutlet, after, nice bread and butter, then cock your legs up, drink your coffee, and smoke your cigarette till one.”

“Did you like the French cafe better than the 'Gaiety'?”

“It is impossible to compare them. I made a great deal of progress. I began one picture of a woman in a hammock, a recollection of you. You remember when we passed under those cedar branches, close to the 'Roebuck,' we saw a hammock hung by the water's edge, and I said I would like to see you in it, and stand by and rock you. I had intended to send it to the Academy, but I never could finish it, the French model was not what I wanted—I wanted you; and I was obliged to leave France, and I could get no one in Southwick. Once a fellow changes his model he is done for; he never can find his idea again.”

“Where's Southwick?”

“A village outside Brighton, three or four miles, not more. I have a studio there; you must come and see it.”

“You must paint me. But what would your lady love say if she found me in your studio? She'd have me out of it pretty quick. Tell me about her; I want to hear how you fell in love.”

“It happened in the most curious, quite providential way. I have told you that I knew them since I was a boy. Maggie has often sat on my knee.”

“Maggie is her name, then?”

“Yes, don't you like the name? I do. Her brother was a school-fellow of mine. We were at Eton together, and one time when Mount Rorke was away travelling they asked me to spend my holidays at Southwick. That's how I got to know them. One day Maggie and Sally were at my studio; Sally has a sweetheart—”

The sentence was cut short by a sudden roar. The train had entered a tunnel, and the speakers made pause, seeing each other vaguely in the dim light, and when they emerged into the cold April twilight Frank told the story of Triss and Berkins, Mr. Brookes struggling with the door, and the girls rushing screaming from their hiding-place; and Frank's imitation of Berkin's pomposity amused Lizzie, and she laughed till she cried. He continued till the joke was worn bare; then, fearing he had been talking too much of himself, he said: “Now, I have been very candid with you, tell me about yourself.”

“There is nothing to tell; I think I have told you all.” Then she said, slipping, as she spoke, into minute confidences: “When I left the 'Gaiety' I went for a few days to the Exhibition, but he wanted to leave London, so I applied to the firm to remove me to Liverpool (not Liverpool Street; the girl—I suppose it was Miss Clarke, for I wrote to her—made a mistake, or you misunderstood her). We remained in Liverpool a year, and then we came back to London, and I went to the 'Criterion,' but I couldn't stop there long; he was so awfully jealous of me; he used to catechise me every evening—who had I spoken to? How long I had spoken to this man? Once I slapped a man's face in fun because he squeezed my hand when I handed him the change across the counter. There was such a row about it. I don't know how he heard of it. I think he must have got some one to watch me. I often suspected the porter—the bigger one of the two; but you don't know the 'Criterion.' You used to go to the 'Gaiety.'”

“Perhaps he saw you himself. I suppose he used to come to the bar?”

“No, not unless—no, not very often. He banged me about.”

“Banged you about, the brute! Good heavens! How could you like a man who would strike a woman? Who was he? Was he a gentleman—I mean, was he supposed to be a gentleman? Of course he wasn't really a gentleman, or he wouldn't have struck you.”

“He was in a passion, he was very sorry for it afterwards. Then I left the firm and went to live in lodgings; he allowed me so much a week.”

“He was a man of some means?”

“No, but it didn't cost him much, he knew the people. We were going to be married, but he got ill, and we thought we had better wait; and I went to the 'Gaiety' again. I was a fool, of course, to think so much about him, for I had plenty of chances. One man who used to lunch there three times a week wanted me to marry him, and take me right away. I think he was in the printing business—a man who was making good money; but I could not give Harry up.”

“Harry is his name, then?”

“Yes; but it all began over again. It was just the same at the 'Gaiety' as it was at the 'Criterion.' He would never leave me alone, but kept on accusing me of flirting with the gentlemen that came to the bar. Now, you know as well as I do what the bar is. You must be polite to the gentlemen you serve. There are certain gentlemen who always come to me, and don't care to be served by any one else, and if I didn't speak to them they wouldn't come to the bar. The manager is very sharp, and would be sure to mention it.”

“Whom do you mean? That fellow with the yellow moustache that walks about with his frock-coat all open—a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters?”

“That's what you called him once before. You see I remember. He is very fond of sherry and bitters. But I was saying that Harry would keep on interfering with me, pulling me over the coals. We had such dreadful rows. He accused me of having gone with gentlemen to their rooms—a thing I never did. I could stand it no longer, and we agreed to part.”

“How long is that ago?”

“About three weeks. I could stand it no longer, I couldn't remain at the 'Gaiety,' so I resolved to leave.”

“Why couldn't you remain at the 'Gaiety,' the manager didn't know anything about it?”

“No, he knew nothing about it, it wouldn't have mattered if he had, but after a break up like that you can't remain among people you know—you want to get right away; there's nothing like a change. Besides I mightn't get such a good chance again; I had the offer of a very good place in Brighton, and I took it—a new restaurant, they open to-morrow. I get thirty pounds a year and my food.”

“And lodging?”

“No, they are very short of accommodation, and I have taken a room in one of the streets close by—Preston Street. Do you know it?”

“Perfectly, off the Western Road.”

“The lady who has the house knew my poor mother—a very nice woman—will let me have a bedroom for five shillings a week, and I shall be allowed to use her sitting-room when I want it, which, of course, won't be very often, for I shall be at business all day.”

The train rolled along the platform; Frank asked the porter when there would be a train for Southwick, and was told he would have half an hour to wait.

“I shall have time to drive you to Preston Street.”

“Oh, no, please don't! She will be waiting for you—you will miss your train.”