On the morning of the first Friday in May Marian received this letter: 

“Uxbridge Road, Holland Park, W.

“DEAR MISS LIND:  I must begin by explaining why I make this communication to you by letter instead of orally.  It is because I am about to ask you to do me a favor.  If you asked me to do anything for you, then, no matter how much my judgment might protest against my compliance, I could not without pain to myself refuse you face to face.  I have no right to assume that your heart would plead on my behalf against your head in this fashion; but, on the other hand ­the wish is father to the thought here ­I have no right to assume that it would not.  Therefore, to spare you all influences except the fair ones of your own interest and inclination, I make my proposal in writing.  You will please put the usual construction on the word ‘proposal.’  What I desire is your consent to marry me.  If your first impulse now is to refuse, I beg you to do so in plain terms at once, and destroy this letter without reading further.  If you think, on the contrary, that we could achieve a future as pleasant as our past association has been ­to me at least, here is what, as I think, you have to consider.

“You are a lady, rich, well-born, beautiful, loved by many persons besides myself, too happily circumstanced to have any pressing inducement to change your condition, and too fortunately endowed in every way to have reason to anticipate the least difficulty in changing it to the greatest worldly advantage when you please.

“What I am and have been, you know.  I may estrange from you some of the society which you enjoy, and I can introduce you to none that would compensate you for the loss.  I am what you call poor:  my income at present does not amount to much more than fifteen hundred pounds; and I should not ask you to marry me if it were not that your own inheritance is sufficient, as I have ascertained, to provide for you in case of my early death.  You know how my sister is situated; how your family are likely to feel toward me on her account and my own; and how impatient I am of devoting much time to what is fashionably supposed to be pleasure.  On the other hand, as I am bidding for a consent and not for a refusal, I hope you will not take my disadvantages for more, or my advantages for less, than they are honestly worth.  At Carbury Park you often said that you would never marry; and I have said the same myself.  So, as we neither of us overrate the possibilities of happiness in marriage, perhaps we might, if you would be a little forbearing with me, succeed in proving that we have greatly underrated them.  As for the prudence of the step, I have seen and practised too much prudence to believe that it is worth much as a rule of conduct in a world of accidents.  If there were a science of life as there is one of mechanics, we could plan our lives scientifically and run no risks; but as it is, we must ­together or apart ­take our chance:  cautiousness and recklessness divide the great stock of regrets pretty equally.

“Perhaps you will wonder at my selfishness in wanting you, for my own good, to forfeit your present happy independence among your friends, and involve your fortunes with those of a man whom you have only seen on occasions when ceremony compelled him to observe his best behavior.  I can only excuse myself by reminding you that no matter whom you marry, you must do so at the same disadvantages, except as to the approval of your friends, of which the value is for you to consider.  That being so, why should I not profit by your hazard as well as another?  Besides, there are many other feelings impelling me.  I should like to describe them to you, and would if I understood them well enough to do it accurately.

“However, nothing is further from my intention than to indite a love letter; so I will return to graver questions.  One, in particular, must be clearly understood between us.  You are too earnest to consider an allusion to religious matters out of place here.  I do not know exactly what you believe; but I have gathered from stray remarks of yours that you belong to what is called the Broad Church.  If so, we must to some extent agree to differ.  I should never interfere in any way with your liberty as far as your actions concerned yourself only.  But, frankly, I should not permit my wife to teach my children to know Christianity in any other way than that in which an educated Englishman knows Buddhism.  I will not go through any ceremony whatever in a church, or enter one except to play the organ.  I am prejudiced against religions of all sorts.  The Church has made itself the natural enemy of the theatre; and I was brought up in the theatre until I became a poor workman earning wages, when I found the Church always taking part against me and my comrades with the rich who did no work.  If the Church had never set itself against me, perhaps I should never have set myself against the Church; but what is done is done:  you will find me irreligious, but not, I hope, unreasonable.

“I will be at the Academy to-morrow at about four o’clock, as I do not care to remain longer in suspense than is absolutely necessary; but if you are not prepared to meet me then, I shall faithfully help you in any effort I may perceive you make to avoid me.

“I am, dear Miss Lind,
“Yours sincerely,
“EDWARD CONOLLY.”

This letter conveyed to Marian hardly one of the considerations set forth in it.  She thought it a frank, strong, admirable letter, just what she should have hoped from her highest estimate of him.  In the quaint earnestness about religion, and the exaggerated estimate (as she thought) of the advantages which she might forfeit by marrying him, there was just enough of the workman to make them characteristic.  She wished that she could make some real sacrifice for his sake.  She was afraid to realize her situation at first, and, to keep it off, occupied herself during the forenoon with her household duties, with some pianoforte practice, and such other triflings as she could persuade herself were necessary.  At last she quite suddenly became impatient of further delay.  She sat down in a nook behind the window curtain, and re-read the letter resolutely.  It disappointed her a little, so she read it again.  The third time she liked it better than the first; and she would have gone through it yet again but for the arrival of Mrs. Leith Fairfax, with whom they had arranged to go to Burlington House.

“It is really a tax on me, this first day at the Academy,” said Mrs. Fairfax, when they were at luncheon.  “I have been there at the press view, besides seeing all the pictures long ago in the studios.  But, of course, I am expected to be there.”

“If I were in your place,” said Elinor, “I ­”

“Last night,” continued Mrs. Fairfax, deliberately ignoring her, “I was not in bed until half-past two o’clock.  On the night before, I was up until five.  On Tuesday I did not go to bed at all.”

“Why do you do such things?” said Marian.

“My dear, I must.  John Metcalf, the publisher, came to me on Tuesday at three o’clock, and said he must have an article on the mango experiments at Kew ready for the printer before ten next morning.  For his paper, the Fortnightly Naturalist, you know.  ’My dear John Metcalf,’ I said, ‘I dont know what a mango is.’  ’No more do I, Mrs. Leith Fairfax,’ said he:  ’I think it’s something that blooms only once in a hundred years.  No matter what it is, you must let me have the article.  Nobody else can do it.’  I told him it was impossible.  My London letter for the Hari Kari was not even begun; and the last post to catch the mail to Japan was at a quarter-past six in the morning.  I had an article to write for your father, too.  And, as the sun had been shining all day, I was almost distracted with hay fever.  ’If you were to go down on your knees,’ I said, ’I could not find time to read up the flora of the West Indies and finish an article before morning.’  He went down on his knees.  ‘Now Mrs. Leith Fairfax,’ said he, ’I am going to stay here until you promise.’  What could I do but promise and get rid of him?  I did it, too:  how, I dont know; but I did it.  John Metcalf told me yesterday that Sir James Hooker, the president of the Society for Naturalizing the Bread Fruit Tree in Britain, and the greatest living authority on the subject, has got the credit of having written my article.”

“How flattered he must feel!” said Elinor.

“What article had you to write for papa?” said Marian.

“On the electro-motor ­the Conolly electro-motor.  I went down to the City on Wednesday, and saw it working.  It is most wonderful, and very interesting.  Mr. Conolly explained it to me himself.  I was able to follow every step that his mind has made in inventing it.  I remember him as a common workman.  He fitted the electric bell in my study four years ago with his own hands.  You may remember that we met him at a concert once.  He is a thorough man of business.  The Company is making upward of fifty pounds an hour by the motor at present; and they expect their receipts to be a thousand a day next year.  My article will be in the Dynamic Statistician next week.  Have you seen Sholto Douglas since he came back from the continent?”

“No.”

“I want to see him.  When you meet him next, tell him to call on me.  Why has he not been here?  Surely you are not keeping up your old quarrel?”

“What old quarrel?”

“I always understood that he went abroad on your account.”

“I never quarreled with him.  Perhaps he did with me, as he has not come to see us since his return.  It used to be so easy to offend him that his retirement in good temper after a visit was quite exceptional.”

“Come, come, my dear child! that is all nonsense.  You must be kind to the poor fellow.  Perhaps he will be at the Academy.”

“I hope not,” said Marian, quickly.

“Why?”

“I mean if he cherishes any grudge against me; for he will be very disagreeable.”

“A grudge against you!  Ah, Marian, how little you understand him!  What perverse creatures all you young people are!  I must bring about an éclaircissement.”

“I advise you not to,” said Elinor.  “If you succeed, no one will admit that you have done anything; and if you fail, everybody will blame you.”

“But there is nothing to be eclairci,” said Marian.  We are talking nonsense, which is silly ­”

“And French, which is vulgar,” interposed Miss McQuinch, delivering the remark like a pistol shot at Mrs. Fairfax, who had been trying to convey by facial expression that she pitied the folly of Elinor’s advice, and was scandalized by her presumption in offering it.  “It is time to start for the Academy.”

When they arrived at Burlington House, Mrs. Fairfax put on her gold rimmed spectacles, and led the way up the stairs like one having important business in a place to which others came for pleasure.  When they had passed the turnstiles, Elinor halted, and said: 

“There is no sort of reason for our pushing through this crowd in a gang of three.  Besides, I want to look at the pictures, and not after you to see which way you go.  I shall meet you here at six o’clock, sharp.  Good-bye.”

“What an extraordinary girl!” said Mrs. Fairfax, as Elinor opened her catalogue at the end, and suddenly disappeared to the right amongst the crowd.

“She always does so,” said Marian; “and I think she is quite right.  Two people cannot make their way about as easily as one; and they never want to see the same pictures.”

“But, my dear, consider the impropriety of a young girl walking about by herself.”

“Surely there is no impropriety in it.  Lots of people ­all sensible women do it.  Who can tell, in this crowd, whether you are by yourself or not?  And what does it matter if ­”

Here Mrs. Fairfax’s attention was diverted by the approach of one of her numerous acquaintances.  Marian, after a moment’s indecision, slipped away and began her tour of the rooms alone, passing quickly through the first in order to escape pursuit.  In the second she tried to look at the pictures; but as she now for the first time realized that she might meet Conolly at any moment, doubt as to what answer she should give him seized her; and she felt a strong impulse to fly.  The pictures were unintelligible to her:  she kept her face turned to the inharmonious shew of paint and gilding only because she shrank from looking at the people about.  Whenever she stood still, and any man approached and remained near her, she contemplated the wall fixedly, and did not dare to look round or even to stir until he moved away, lest he should be Conolly.  When she passed from the second room to the large one, she felt as though she were making a tremendous plunge; and indeed the catastrophe occurred before she had accomplished the movement, for she came suddenly face to face with him in the doorway.  He did not flinch:  he raised his hat, and prepared to pass on.  She involuntarily put out her hand in remonstrance.  He took it as a gift at once; and she, confused, said anxiously:  “We must not stand in the doorway.  The people cannot pass us,” as if her action had meant nothing more than an attempt to draw him out of the way.  Then, perceiving the absurdity of this pretence, she was quite lost for a moment.  When she recovered her self-possession they were standing together in the less thronged space near a bust of the Queen; and Conolly was saying: 

“I have been here half an hour; and I have not seen a single picture.”

“Nor I,” she said timidly, looking down at her catalogue.  “Shall we try to see some now?”

He opened his catalogue; and they turned together toward the pictures and were soon discussing them sedulously, as if they wished to shut out the subject of the very recent crisis in their affairs, which was nevertheless constantly present in their minds.  Marian was saluted by many acquaintances.  At each encounter she made an effort to appear unconcerned, and suffered immediately afterward from a suspicion that the effort had defeated its own object, as such efforts often do.  Conolly had something to say about most of the pictures:  generally an unanswerable objection to some historical or technical inaccuracy, which sometimes convinced her, and always impressed her with a confiding sense of ignorance in herself and infallible judgment in him.

“I think we have done enough for one day,” she said at last.  “The watercolors and the sculpture must wait until next time.”

“We had better watch for a vacant seat.  You must be tired.”

“I am, a little.  I think I should like to sit in some other room.  Mrs. Leith Fairfax is over there with Mr. Douglas ­a gentleman whom I know and would rather not meet just now.  You saw him at Wandsworth.”

“Yes.  That tall man?  He has let his beard grow since.”

“That is he.  Let us go to the room where the drawings are:  we shall have a better chance of a seat there.  I have not seen Sholto for two years; and our last meeting was rather a stormy one.”

“What happened?”

Marian was a little hurt by being questioned.  She missed the reticence of a gentleman.  Then she reproached herself for not understanding that his frank curiosity was a delicate appeal to her confidence in him, and answered:  “He proposed to me.”

Conolly immediately dropped the subject, and went in search of a vacant seat.  They found one in the little room where the architects’ drawings languish.  They were silent for some time.

Then he began, seriously:  “Is it too soon to call you by your own name?  ‘Miss Lind’ is distant; but ‘Marian’ might shock you if it came too confidently without preparation.”

“Whichever you please.”

“Whichever I please!”

“That is the worst of being a woman.  Little speeches that are sheer coquetry when you analyze them, come to our lips and escape even when we are most anxious to be straightforward.”

“In the same way,” said Conolly, “the most enlightened men often express themselves in a purely conventional manner on subjects on which they have the deepest convictions.”  This sententious utterance had the effect of extinguishing the conversation for some moments, Marian being unable to think of a worthy rejoinder.  At last she said: 

“What is your name?”

“Edward, or, familiarly, Ned.  Commonly Ted.  In America, Ed. With, of course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.”

“I think I should prefer Ned.”

“I prefer Ned myself.”

“Have you any other name?”

“Yes; but it is a secret.  Why people should be plagued with two Christian names, I do not know.  No one would have believed in the motor if they had known that my name was Sebastian.”

“Sebastian!”

“Hush.  I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly.  My father used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy.  I have frustrated the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the sensible Edward Conolly.”

There was a pause.  Then Marian spoke.

“Do you intend to make our ­our engagement known at once?”

“I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for the present, if you wish to.  It must transpire sometime:  the sooner the better.  You will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as for me, every time your father greets me cordially in the City I shall feel mean.  However, you can watch for your opportunity.  Let me know at once when the cat comes out of the bag.”

“I will.  I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.”

“Undoubtedly.  But from the moment you do so until we are married you will be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so that we cannot possibly make that interval too short.”

“We must take Nelly into our confidence.  You will not object to that?”

“Certainly not.  I like Miss McQuinch.”

“You really do!  Oh, I am so glad.  Well, we are accustomed to go about together, especially to picture galleries.  We can come to the Academy as often as we like; and you can come as often as you like, can you not?”

“Opening day, for instance.”

“Yes, if you wish.”

“Let us say between half-past four and five, then.  I would willingly be here when the doors open in the morning; but my business will not do itself while I am philandering and making you tired of me before your time.  The consciousness of having done a day’s work is necessary to my complete happiness.”

“I, too, have my day’s work to do, silly as it is.  I have to housekeep, to receive visitors, to write notes about nothing, and to think of the future.  We can say half-past four or any later hour that may suit you.”

“Agreed.  And now, Marian ­”

“Dont let me disturb you,” said Miss McQuinch, at his elbow, to Marian; “but Mrs. Leith Fairfax will be here with Sholto Douglas presently; and I thought you might like to have an opportunity of avoiding him.  How do you do, Mr. Conolly?”

“I must see him sooner or later,” said Marian, rising.  “Better face him at once and get it over.  I will go back by myself and meet them.”  Then, with a smile at Conolly, she went out through the door leading to the water-color gallery.

“Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly,” said Miss McQuinch, glancing at him.

“No,” said Conolly.  “Do you think you could face the Academy again on Monday at half-past four?”

“Why?”

“Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour.”

“Marian!”

“Precisely.  Marian.  She has promised to marry me.  At present it is a secret.  But it was to be mentioned to you.”

“It will not be a secret very long if you allow people to overhear you calling her by her Christian name in the middle of the Academy, as you did me just now,” said Elinor, privately much taken aback, but resolute not to appear so.

“Did you overhear us?  I should have been more careful.  You do not seem surprised.”

“Just a little, at your audacity.  Not in the least at Marian’s consenting.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not mean it in that way at all,” said Elinor resentfully.  “I think you have been very fortunate, as I suppose you would have married somebody in any case.  I believe you are able to appreciate her.  That’s a compliment.”

“Yes.  I hope I deserve it.  Do you think you will ever forgive me for supplanting the hero Marian deserves?”

“If you had let your chance of her slip, I should have despised you, I think:  at least, I should if you had missed it with your eyes open.  I am so far prejudiced in your favor that I think Marian would not like you unless you were good.  I have known her to pity people who deserved to be strangled; but I never knew her to be attracted by any unworthy person except myself; and even I have my good points.  You need not trouble yourself to agree with me:  you could not do less, in common politeness.  As I am rather tired, I shall go and sit in the vestibule until the others are ready to go home.  In the meantime you can tell me all the particulars you care to trust me with.  Marian will tell me the rest when we go home.”

“That is an undeserved stab,” said Conolly.

“Never mind:  I am always stabbing people.  I suppose I like it,” she added, as they went together to the vestibule.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Leith Fairfax had not been wasting her time.  She had come upon Douglas in the large room, and had recognized him by his stature and proud bearing, in spite of the handsome Assyrian beard he had allowed to grow during his stay abroad.

“I have been very anxious to see you,” said she, forcing a conversation upon him, though he had saluted her formally, and had evidently intended to pass on without speaking.  “If your time were not too valuable to be devoted to a poor hard-working woman, I should have asked you to call on me.  Dont deprecate my forbearance.  You are Somebody in the literary world now.”

“Indeed?  I was not aware that I had done anything to raise me from obscurity.”

“I assure you you are very much mistaken, or else very modest.  Has no one told you about the effect your book produced here?”

“I know nothing of it, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.  I never enquire after the effect of my work.  I have lived in comparative seclusion; and I scarcely know what collection of fugitive notes of mine you honor by describing as a book.”

“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s Salon,’ with the sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama.  Is it finished, may I ask?”

“It is not finished.  I shall never finish it now.”

“I will tell you ­between ourselves ­that I heard one of the foremost critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both know), that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, ’whose lost arms,’ said he, ’we should fear to see, lest they should be unworthy of her.’  ‘You are right,’ said the poet:  ’I, for one, should shudder to see the fragment completed.’  That is a positive fact.  But look at some of the sonnets!  Burgraves says that his collection of English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your ‘Clytemnestra,’ which he had not seen when his book went to press.  You stand in the very forefront of literature ­far higher than I, who am ­dont tell anybody ­five years older than you.”

“You are very good.  I do not value any distinction of the sort.  I write sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out, whether I will or not.  Let us talk of something else.  You are quite well I hope?”

“Very far from it.  I am never well; but since I never have a moment’s rest from work, I must bear with it.  People expect me to think, when I have hardly time to eat.”

“If you have no time to think, I envy you.  But I am truly sorry that your health remains so bad.”

“Thank you.  But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr. Douglas?  Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and already famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?”

“You exaggerate the sadness of my unfortunate insensibility to the admiration of the crowd,” said Douglas, coldly.  “I am, nevertheless, flattered by the interest you take in my affairs.”

“You need not be, Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Fairfax, earnestly, fearing that he would presently succeed in rebuffing her.  “I think you are much better off than you deserve.  You may despise your reputation as much as you like:  that only affects yourself.  But when a beautiful girl pays you the compliment of almost dying of love for you, I think you ought to buy a wedding-ring and jump for joy, instead of sulking in remote corners of the continent.”

“And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?”

“You must know, unless you are blind.”

“Pardon me.  I do not habitually imply what is not the case.  I beg you to believe that I do not know.”

“Not know!  What moles men are!  Poor Marian!”

“Oblige me by taking this seat,” said Douglas, sternly, pointing to one just vacated.  “I shall not detain you many minutes,” he added, sitting down beside her.  “May I understand that Miss Lind is the lady of whom you spoke just now?”

“Yes.  Remember that I am speaking to you as a friend, and that I trust to you not to mention the effort I am making to clear up the misunderstanding which causes her so much unhappiness.”

“Are you then in Miss Lind’s confidence?  Did she ask you to tell me this?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Douglas?”

“I am quite innocent of any desire to shock or offend you, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.  Does your question imply a negative?”

“Most certainly.  Marian ask me to tell! you must be dreaming.  Do you think, even if Marian were capable of making an advance, that I would consent to act as a go-between?  Really, Mr. Douglas!”

“I confess I do not understand these matters; and you must bear with my ineptitude.  If Miss Lind entertains any sentiment for me but one of mistrust and aversion, her behavior is singularly misleading.”

“Mistrust!  Aversion!  I tell you she is in love with you.”

“But you have not, you admit, her authority for saying so, whereas I have her authority for the contrary.”

“You do not understand girls.  You are mistaken.”

“Possibly; but you must pardon me if I hesitate to set aside my own judgment in deference to your low estimate of it.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Fairfax, her patience yielding a little to his persistent stiffness:  “be it so.  Many men would be glad to beg what you will not be bribed to accept.”

“No doubt.  I trust that when they so humble themselves they may not encounter a flippant repulse.”

“If they do, it will spring from her unmerited regard for you.”

He bowed slightly, and turned away, arranging his gloves as if about to rise.

“Pray what is that large picture which is skied over there to the right?” said Mrs. Fairfax, after a pause, during which she had feigned to examine her catalogue.  “I cannot see the number at this distance.”

“Do you defend her conduct on the ground of that senseless and cruel caprice which your sex seem to consider becoming to them; or has she changed her mind in my absence?”

“Oh! you are talking of Marian.  I do not know what you have to complain of in her conduct.  Mind, she has never breathed a word to me on the subject.  I am quite ignorant of the details of your difference with her.  But she has confessed to me that she is very sorry for what passed ­I am abusing her confidence by telling you so ­and I am a woman, with eyes and brains, and know what the poor girl feels well enough.  I will tell you nothing more:  I have no right to; and Marian would be indignant if she knew how much I have said already.  But I know what I should do were I in your place.”

“Expose myself to another refusal, perhaps?”

Mrs. Fairfax, learning now for the first time that he had actually proposed to Marian, looked at him for some moments in silence with a smile which was assumed to cover her surprise.  He thought it expressed incredulity at the idea of his being refused again.

“Are you sure?” he began, speaking courteously to her for the first time.  “May I rely upon the accuracy of your impressions on this subject?  I know you are incapable of trifling in a matter which might expose me to humiliation; but can you give me any guarantee ­any ­”

“Certainly not, Mr. Douglas.  I am really sorry that I cannot give you a written undertaking that your suit shall succeed:  perhaps that might encourage you to brave the scorn of a poor child who adores you.  But if you need so much encouragement, I fear you do not greatly relish the prospect of success.  Doubtless it has already struck her that since you found absence from her very bearable for two years, and have avoided meeting her on your return, her society cannot be very important to your happiness.”

“But it was her own fault.  If she accuses me of having gone away to enjoy myself, her thoughts are a bitter sarcasm on the truth.”

“Granted that it was her own fault, if you please.  But surely you have punished her enough by your long seclusion, and can afford to shew a tardy magnanimity by this time.  There she is, I think, just come in at the door on the left.  My sight is so wretched.  Is it not she?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us get up and speak to her.  Come.”

“You must excuse me, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.  I have distinctly given her my word that I will not intrude upon her again.”

“Dont be so foolish.”

Douglas’s face clouded.  “You are privileged to say so,” he said.

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Fairfax, frightened.  “But when I think of Marian, I feel like an old woman, and venture to remonstrate with all the presumption of age.  I beg your pardon.”

He bowed.  Then Marian joined them, and Mrs. Fairfax again gave tongue.

“Where have you been?” she cried.  “You vanished from my side like a sprite.  I have been searching for you ever since.”

“I have been looking at the pictures, of course.  I am so glad you have come back, Sholto.  I think you might have made time to pay us a visit before this.  You look so strong and well!  Your beard is a great improvement.  Have you met Nelly?”

“I think we saw her at some distance,” said Douglas.  “I have not been speaking to her.”

“How did you enjoy yourself while you were away?”

“As best I could.”

“You look as if you had succeeded very fairly.  What o’clock is it?  Remember that we have to meet Nelly at the turnstiles at six.”

“It is five minutes to six now, Miss Lind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Douglas.  We had better go, I think.”

As they left the room, Mrs. Fairfax purposely lingered behind them.

“Am I right in concluding that you are as frivolous as ever, Marian?” he said.

“Quite,” she replied.  “To-day especially so.  I am very happy to-day.”

“May I ask why?”

“Something has happened.  I will tell you what it is some day perhaps, but not now.  Something that realizes a romantic dream of mine.  The dream has been hovering vaguely about me for nearly two years; but I never ventured to teach myself exactly what it was until to-day.”

“Realized here? in the Academy?”

“It was foreshadowed ­promised, at home this morning; but it was realized here.”

“Did you know beforehand that I was coming?”

“Not until to-day.  Mrs. Leith Fairfax said that you would most likely be here.”

“And you are happy?”

“So much so that I cannot help talking about my happiness to you, who are the very last person ­as you will admit when everything is explained ­to whom I should unlock my lips on the subject.”

“And why?  Am I not interested in your happiness?”

“I suppose so.  I hope so.  But when you learn the truth, you will be more astonished than gratified.”

“I dare swear that you are mistaken.  Is this dream of yours an affair of the heart?”

“Now you are beginning to ask questions.”

“Well, I will ask no more at present.  But if you fear that my long absence has rendered me indifferent in the least degree to your happiness, you do me a great injustice.”

“Well, you were not in a very good humor with me when you went away.”

“I will forget that if you wish me to.”

“I do wish you to forget it.  And you forgive me?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Then we are the best friends in the world again.  This is a great deal better than meeting and pretending to ignore the very thing of which our minds are full.  You will not delay visiting us any longer now, I hope.”

“I will call on your father to-morrow morning.  May I?”

“He is out of town until Monday.  He will be delighted to see you then.  He has been talking to me about you a great deal of late.  But if you want to see him in the morning you had better go to the club.  I will write to him to-night if you like; so that he can write to you and make an appointment.”

“Do.  Ah, Marian, instinct is better and truer than intellect.  I have been for two years trying to believe all kinds of evil of you; and yet I knew all the time that you were an angel.”

Marian laughed.  “I suppose that under our good understanding I must let you say pretty things to me.  You must write me a sonnet before your enthusiasm evaporates.  I am sure I deserve it as well as Clytemnestra.”

“I will.  But I fear I shall tear it up for its unworthiness afterward.”

“Dont:  I am not a critic.  Talking of critics, where has Mrs. Leith Fairfax gone to?  Oh, there she is!”

Mrs. Fairfax came up when she saw Marian look round for her.  “My dear,” she said:  “it is past six.  We must go.  Elinor may be waiting for us.”

They found Elinor seated in the vestibule with Conolly, at whom Mrs. Fairfax plunged, full of words.  Conolly and Douglas, introduced to one another by Marian, gravely raised their hats.  When they had descended the stairs, they stood in a group near one of the doors whilst Conolly went aside to get their umbrellas.  Just then Marmaduke Lind entered the building, and halted in surprise at finding himself among so many acquaintances.

“Hallo!” he cried, seizing Douglas’s hand, and attracting the attention of the bystanders by his boisterous tone.  “Here you are again, old man!  Delighted to see you.  Didnt spot you at first, in the beard.  George told me you were back.  I met your mother in Knightsbridge last Thursday; but she pretended not to see me.  How have you enjoyed yourself abroad, eh?  Very much in the old style, I suppose?”

“Thank you,” said Douglas.  “I trust your people are quite well.”

“Hang me if I know!” said Marmaduke.  “I have not troubled them much of late.  How d’ye do, Mrs. Leith Fairfax?  How are all the celebrities?” Mrs. Fairfax bowed coldly.

“Dont roar so, Marmaduke,” said Marian.  “Everybody is looking at you.”

“Everybody is welcome,” said Marmaduke, loudly.  “Douglas:  you must come and see me.  By Jove, now that I think of it, come and see me, all of you.  I am by myself on week-nights from six to twelve; and I should enjoy a housewarming.  If Mrs. Leith Fairfax comes, it will be all proper and right.  Let us have a regular party.”

Mrs. Fairfax looked indignantly at him.  Elinor looked round anxiously for Conolly.  Marian, struck with the same fear, moved toward the door.

“Here, Marmaduke,” she said, offering him her hand.  “Good-bye.  You are in one of your outrageous humors this afternoon.”

“What am I doing?” he replied.  “I am behaving myself perfectly.  Let us settle about the party before we go.”

“Good evening, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, coming up to them with the umbrellas.  “This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.”

“Good evening,” said Marmaduke, subsiding.  “I ­Well, you are all off, are you?”

“Quite time for us, I think,” said Elinor.  “Good-bye.”

Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with Conolly and Douglas.  Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke.

“First rate,” said Marmaduke, in reply to the whisper; “and beginning to talk like one o’clock.  Oh yes, I tell you!” He shook Elinor’s hand at such length in his gratitude for the inquiry that she was much relieved when a servant in livery interrupted him.

“Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes,” said the man.

Elinor shook her head at Marmaduke, and hurried away to rejoin the rest outside.  As they went through the courtyard, they passed an open carriage, in which reclined a pretty woman with dark eyes and delicate artificial complexion.  Her beauty and the elegance of her dress attracted their attention.  Suddenly Marian became aware that Conolly was watching her as she looked at the woman in the carriage.  She was about to say something, when, to her bewilderment, Elinor nudged her.  Then she understood too, and looked solemnly at Susanna.  Susanna, observing her, stared insolently in return, and Marian averted her head like a guilty person and hurried on.  Conolly saw it all, and did not speak until they rejoined Mrs. Fairfax and Douglas in Piccadilly.

“How do you propose to go home?” said Douglas.

“Walk to St. James’s Street, where the carriage is waiting at the club; take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park,” said Elinor.

“I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me,” said Douglas.

Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared, when he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister’s carriage.

“Well, Susanna,” said he.  “How are you?”

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied carelessly, her eyes filling with tears, nevertheless.

“I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.”

“Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“What is its name?” he said more gravely.

“Lucy.”

“Is it quite well?”

“I suppose not.  According to Nurse, it is always ill.”

Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in which he had used to talk with his sister.  “Tired of it already?” he said.  “Poor little wretch!”

“It is very well off,” she retorted, angrily:  “a precious deal better than I was at its age.  It gets petting enough from its father, heaven knows!  He has nothing else to do.  I have to work.”

“You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose.  You are quite famous.”

“Yes,” she said, bitterly.  “We are both celebrities.  Rather different from old times.”

“We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence.  However, let us hope all that is over now.”

“Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?”

“Cousins of Lind.  Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch.”

“I remember.  She is pretty.  I suppose, as usual, she hasnt an idea to bless herself with.  The other looks more of a devil.  Now that you are a great man, why dont you marry a swell?”

“I intend to do so.”

“The Lord help her then!”

“Amen.  Good-bye.”

“Oh, good-bye.  Go on to Soho,” she added, to the coachman, settling herself fretfully on the cushions.