Hubert had been worried and overworked of late; it had appeared to him a good thing that he should spend a few of the spring days at Beechfield, and try to recover in the society of his sister and his betrothed the serenity that he had lost. But this seemed after all no easy thing to do. He was annoyed to find himself irritated by small matters; his equanimity, usually perfect, was soon ruffled; and, although he did not always show any outward sign of vexation, he felt that his temper was not quite under his own control. And it was Enid, curiously enough, who irritated him most.

"Who is this new singer," she asked one day, "about whom people are talking so much?"

"My dear Enid, how am I to know which singer you mean?" he said, letting the newspaper drop from his hand, and clasping his hands leisurely behind his head. "There are so many new singers!"

They had been having tea under the beech-tree, and, as usual, had been left alone to do their love-making, undisturbed. Their love-making was of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their conversation went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up by an orchestra of birds in the branches overhead.

"I do not remember her name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were talking about her yesterday; they heard her in town last week. 'Cynthia' something—'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an uncommon name."

"I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long pause.

"Yes, 'Cynthia West'—that was the name. Have you heard her?"

"Yes."

"And do you think her very wonderful?"

"She is a remarkably fine singer."

"Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London! Aunt Leo wants me to stay with her."

"That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring himself a little. "Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep."

"What a horrible place it must be!" said Enid, with a little shiver.

"You think so? It is my home."

There was an accent in his voice which impressed Enid painfully. She clasped her hands rather tightly together in her lap, and said, after another pause, in a lower tone—

"I dare say I should grow fond of it if I lived there."

"As you will do, in time," said Hubert, with a smile. "You must try to believe that you will soon be as absorbed in town-life as every other woman; that concerts and theatres and balls will make up for green fields and the songs of birds; that men are more interesting than brooks and flowers; that to shop and to gossip are livelier occupations than visiting the poor and teaching little Dick. Don't you think you can imagine it?"She shook her head.

"I can't imagine it; but, if I had to do it, I would try. I don't think your picture is very attractive, if I may say so, Hubert."

"Don't you, dear? Why not?"

"It sounds so unreal. Do women pass their lives in that frivolous, vapid way?"

"Not all of them, of course. There are women who have work to do," said Hubert, looking idly into the distance, as if he were thinking of some one or something that he could not see.

"Oh, yes, I know—working women—professional women—women," said Enid, with an innocent smile, "like Cynthia West."

Hubert gave a slight start; then, to cover it, he changed his position, bringing his arms down and crossing them on his breast.

"You might tell me what she is like," continued Enid, with more playfulness of manner than she generally showed. "You tell me so little about London people! Is she handsome?"

"Yes, very."

"Dark or fair?"

"Very dark."

"Is she an Englishwoman?" pursued Enid.

"I am sure I don't know. I never asked."

"You know her then?"

"What makes you ask all these questions?" said Hubert, as if he had not heard the last. "Who has put Miss West into your head in this way?" He looked annoyed.

Enid at once put out a caressing hand.

"I did not mean to be too inquisitive, Hubert dear. But the Tollemaches are very musical, and they were talking a great deal about her. They said they saw you at the concert when she came out—some Italian teacher's semi-private concert—and they seemed to think that you knew the whole set of people who were there."

Mentally Hubert made some uncharitable remarks on the future destiny of the Tollemaches; but he controlled himself so far as to answer coolly—

"I know several of that set, certainly. I know Miss West a little.""How delightful," cried Enid. "I should like to meet some of these great artists. Will you ever be able to introduce me to her, do you think, Hubert?"

"I think not," said Hubert, knitting his brows. He did not find himself able to turn the subject quite as easily as he could have wished.

"Oh, isn't she nice?" hazarded Enid doubtfully. "I always fancy that the people who sing and act in public can't be quite as nice as the people who stay in their own home-circle. I know that you will think me very narrow-minded to say so, but I can't help it."

"I am afraid that I do think it rather narrow-minded," said Hubert quietly, but with a dangerous lighting of his eyes. "You must surely know that some of these singers are as good, as noble, as womanly as any of your sheltered young ladies in their home-circles, who have not genius enough to make themselves talked of by the world!"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" said Enid, quite unconscious of the storm that she was exciting in Hubert's breast. "But it is difficult to understand why they prefer a public life to a private one. Do you think they really like appearing on the stage?"

"I am sure they do," said Hubert, with a short laugh. "You cannot understand it as yet, I suppose; you will understand it by-and-by. It would be a very poor lookout for a novelist and playwright like myself, Enid, if every one thought as you do."

And then he got up and walked to meet the General, who was approaching the tea-table, and, as the two were soon deep in political matters, Enid presently slipped away unobserved.

She felt vaguely that she had vexed or disappointed her lover; she knew the tones of his voice well enough to feel sure that in some way she had said what he did not approve. And yet, on reflection, she could not see that she had given him legitimate cause of offence. She knew that he did not agree with her in preferring country to town; or in thinking that women who sang in public were not quite of her class; but she did not think that he ought to be angry with her for expressing her views. He perplexed her very much by his moments of irritation, of coldness, of absence of mind. At times he was certainly very different. He could be most tender, though always with the tenderness of a grown man to a child, of a strong person towards a weak one—and this was a kind of tenderness which did not satisfy Enid's heart. Sometimes indeed she was thankful that it was so, feeling as if any great display of affection on his part would be overwhelming, out of place; but at other times she felt that his calm kindness was almost an insult to the woman whom he had asked to be his wife. A little while back she would not have thought so—she would have been well content with his behavior; but a new factor had come into her life since her engagement to Hubert Lepel, some new and agitating consciousness of power had dawned upon her, with a revelation of faculties and influences to which she had hitherto been a stranger; and, in presence of these novel emotions and discoveries, Hubert was weighed in the balance and found wanting.

Meanwhile Hubert was as uncomfortable as a man could well be. He had always meant to be faithful and tender to Enid—for whom, as he had said, he would do anything in his power to save her from unhappiness; on the other hand, he found the task more difficult than he had dreamed. He had seen her first as a sweet, docile, pliable creature, ready to be led, ready to be taught, and he had meant to mould her to his will. But, lo and behold, the girl was not really pliable at all! She had a distinct character, an individuality of her own, as different from any ideal of Hubert's as ice from fire. Her inability to appreciate the artistic side of life—as he put it to himself—her dislike to the great town where all his interests lay—these were traits which troubled him out of proportion to their intrinsic worth. How could he be happy with a woman who differed from him so entirely in habits, taste, and training? He forgot for a moment that he had asked her to marry him in order that she might be made happy—that he had solemnly put aside from himself all thought of personal joy. But human nature is weak, and renunciation not always pleasant. It occurred to his mind that Enid herself might not be very happy if married to a man with whom she was not in sympathy.

It was half with relief, half with regret, that he listened to a monologue from the General on the subject of Enid's marriage.

"I always disapproved of early marriages," he said sapiently; "they never turn out well. And Enid is delicate; she must not take the cares of a household upon her until she is older and stronger. Don't ask me for her until she is twenty-one, Hubert! She shall not marry till then with my consent." He had never spoken so strongly before; but he was reinforced by Flossy's recently-bestowed approval. Till within the last few days, Flossy had been all for a speedy marriage. She said now that she was convinced that her "dear Richard" was perfectly right, and the General was "cock-a-hoop" accordingly. "I need not threaten; you know very well that I have the whole control of the money that would go to her dowry—I need say nothing more. I will have no marriage talked about—no engagement even—for the present. Mind you, Enid is not engaged to you, Hubert. If she thinks fit to change her mind, she may do so."

"Certainly, sir."

"And, if you think fit to change your mind, you may do so too. Nobody wants either of you to marry where you do not love; the worst thing in the world!"

"When is this prohibition to be removed?" asked Hubert. "It seems to me a little hard upon—upon us both."

"If Enid is stronger, I will allow her to be engaged in a year's time," said the General, "but not before; and I shall tell her so."

The first time that Hubert found himself alone with Enid he said—

"The General seems to have changed his mind about our engagement, Enid."

"Yes; he told me so," she answered meekly.

"He says we are not to consider ourselves engaged."

"Yes."

"I am very sorry that he should take that view——"

"Don't be sorry, please!" she said, quickly interrupting him. "I think that it is better so."

"Better, Enid?"

"Yes. He says that I am not strong—and it is true. I feel very weak sometimes, not strong enough to bear much, I am afraid. If I were to become an invalid, I should not marry." She spoke gently, but with great resolution.

"That is all a morbid fancy of yours," said Hubert. "You will be better soon. After this summer, the General talks of winter in the Riviera. That will do you all the good in the world."

"I think not," she answered quietly. "I am afraid that I am not so likely to recover as you think. And, if not, nothing on earth will induce me to marry any man. Remember that, Hubert—if I am not better, I will not marry you. I intend to join the sisters at East Winstead."

"It is that meddling parson who is at the bottom of this, I'll swear!" said Hubert angrily, quitting her side and pacing about the room. He noticed that at his words the color rose in the girl's pale cheeks.

"If you mean Mr. Evandale," she said, "I can assure you that he has never said a word to me about East Winstead. It is entirely my own wish."

"My dear child," said Hubert, halting in front of her, "the last thing we want is to force your wishes in any direction. If, for instance, you wish to throw me over and be a nun, do so by all means. I only ask you to be true to yourself, and to see that you do not act on impulse, or so as to blight the higher impulses of your nature. I can say no more."

Enid looked at him wistfully, and seemed inclined to speak; but the entrance of her uncle at that moment put a stop to further conversation, and the subject was not reopened before Hubert's return to town.

"No engagement—free to do as I please." The words hummed themselves in Hubert's mind to the accompaniment of the throbs of the steam-engine all the way back to London. What did it mean? What did Enid herself mean? Was it not a humiliating position for a man to be in? Was it fair either to him or to the girl? Did it not mean, as a matter of fact, that Flossy had been mistaken, and that Enid was not in the least in love with him? He could not say that she had been especially affectionate of late. Passively gentle, sweet, amiable, she always was, but not emotional, not demonstrative. At that moment Hubert would have given ten years of his life to know what was in her heart—what she really meant, and wanted him to do.

Arrived at Charing Cross Station, he seemed uncertain as to his movements. He hesitated when the porter asked him what he should do with his luggage, and gave an order which he afterwards contradicted."No," he said, "I won't do that. Put my things on a cab. All right! Drive to No.—Russell Square."

This was his home-address; but, when there, he did not go up-stairs. He told his landlady to send his things to his room, and not to expect him back to dinner, as he meant to dine at his club.

He did so; but after dinner his fitful hesitancy seemed to revive. He smoked a cigarette, talked a little to one of his friends, then went out slowly and, as it seemed, indecisively into the street, and called a hansom-cab. Then his indecision seemed to leave him. He jumped in, shouted an address to the driver, and was driven on to a quiet square in Kensington, where he knocked at the door of a tall narrow house, only noticeable in the daytime by reason of the masses of flowers in the balcony, and at night by the rose-colored blinds, illuminated by the light of a lamp, in the drawing-room windows.

The servant who opened the door welcomed him with a smile, as if his face was well known to her. He passed her with a word of explanation, and marched up-stairs to the first-floor, where he tapped lightly at the drawing-room door, and then, without waiting, walked into the room.

A girl in a red dress, who had been kneeling on the rug before the fire, rose to her feet as he came in and uttered a blithesome greeting.

"At last!" she said. "So here you are, monsieur! I was wondering what had become of you, and thought you had deserted me altogether!"

"Could I do that?" said Hubert, in a tone in which mock gallantry was strangely mingled with a tenderness which was altogether passionate and earnest. "Do you really think that I ever could do that?"

The girl he spoke to was Cynthia West.