A wave of emotion swept over Emil Blatz as he listened; the mellifluous beauty of the melody almost carried him away. He knew not whom he envied the more: Mendelssohn for having composed such music, or the young singer for her power to interpret it in that way.

The words, too, sounded in his ear with peculiar significance; they seemed like a justification of the singer’s faith.

Suddenly the voice ceased its tender note of appeal; and after a few bars of recitative, burst forth into a triumphant assurance of divine protection, followed by the sublime meditation:—

“Say, who art thou, that art afraid of a man that shall die? And forgettest the Lord thy Maker, Who hath stretched forth the heavens, and laid the earth’s foundations? Be not afraid, for I, thy God, will strengthen thee!”

To Blatz there was a note of defiance in the girl’s rendering of the dramatic music: the very poise of her head, as she sang the “Be not afraid,” seemed like a challenge to those who were her enemies. In his simplicity he forgot that she was quite unconscious of her uninvited listener, and that the words were not her own.

When the last note died away, he moved towards the hall door: he had made up his mind that the artist must be warned.

Karne received him in the smoke-room, expecting that he had been deputed to bring him the written apology he claimed. He was disappointed to learn that such was not the case; but although he had no desire to remain at enmity with Mendel’s people, he fully meant to stand his ground.

The foreman explained that he had not come on behalf of the people, but merely to acquaint the artist privately of the strong ill-feeling that existed against him, and to advise him to take measures towards self-protection. The situation was graver than he knew.

“It is an absurd affair altogether,” Karne said impatiently. “What your grievance really is, I haven’t the faintest idea. I wish you would tell me in what I have offended your people so deeply.”

Blatz spread his hands deprecatingly, as much as to say that it was no fault of his.

“It’s mostly on account of Miss Celia, sir,” he began with hesitation. “They think you ought to have adopted severer measures in connection with her conversion. And because you have painted religious pictures, and are so friendly with the Rev. Mr. Milnes, they think that you yourself are going the wrong way. They fear that you and your sister will attempt to convert them also.”

Karne listened with good-natured contempt on his handsome face.

“What egregious idiots!” he exclaimed, when Blatz had finished. “You may assure them on my word of honour that I have no intention of becoming a Christian—not because I have any silly prejudices such as theirs, however. As for my sister, neither they nor I have the right to deny her the courage of her opinions. I feel sure that she will not offend by thrusting her creed upon any of you against your will.”

“Then why did she take little Blume Horwitz home and try to convert her yesterday, sir?”

The artist raised his eyebrows. “My sister and her friend found the little girl in distress by the road-side; and enacted the part of good Samaritan by bringing her here to be attended to,” he replied. “I do not know what you mean by ‘trying to convert her.’ You surely do not think that she would argue about religion with a child!”

“But she hung a crucifix around Blume’s neck,” affirmed Blatz, eagerly. “That was a great mistake, sir. It was like throwing down the gauntlet, so to speak.”

Karne looked puzzled and incredulous. “Surely you must be mistaken!” he exclaimed in surprise. “However we can easily ask my sister about it. Will you come with me into the drawing-room? Oh, that’s all right”—as Blatz looked ruefully down at his corduroys—“the ladies will excuse your attire.”

He led the way across the hall, the foreman nervously following. Blatz dreaded the highly polished parquet floor, and the rugs which slipped away directly one’s feet touched them. The only occasion on which he had been there before he had executed an involuntary war dance; and he was not anxious for a repetition of the performance.

Higgins, who had just brought in the after-dinner coffee, favoured the unusual visitor with a look of supercilious superiority; but Celia, with her usual sweetness, invited him to sit down; and insisted on his taking a cup of coffee with them.

Blatz shuffled to the nearest chair, and sat on the edge of it. From the outside the room with its handsome belongings had delighted his artistic sense; but now that he was inside he half wished himself out again.

Herbert Karne explained the nature of the foreman’s errand.

“Things have come to a pretty pass,” he said, bitterly, “when we, who have done those people nothing but good, should have to be warned concerning our own safety because of their sinister designs. One might imagine that we were living in the days of the Inquisition.”

The girls looked scared.

“What do you think they will do?” asked Gladys Milnes.

“I have not the least idea. However, we need not be afraid. Fortunately there is a telephone in the house, so that I can easily ring up the police if there should be occasion to do so.”

Blatz pricked up his ears, and made a mental note of the latter statement.

“By-the-bye,” continued the artist slowly, “did you tie a crucifix round that little Horwitz girl’s neck, yesterday, Celia?”

The girl seemed astounded. “I? No, of course not,” she answered, emphatically. “I have never possessed such a thing.”

“Miss Franks is not a Roman Catholic. She does not wear baubles of that sort,” put in the vicar, who was extremely Low Church.

“I thought so,” said Karne, with satisfaction. “So you see you were mistaken, Mr. Blatz.”

The foreman was disconcerted. “The child wore one when she returned from the Towers, sir,” he said but half convinced. “Perhaps Miss Celia’s friend——?”

Enid Wilton shook her head. “No, I had nothing to do with it either,” she said. “It is a strange occurrence.”

It was indeed strange. Blatz did not know what to make of it. He could not possibly doubt the statement of the two young ladies; and yet, if neither of them had put the crucifix on the child, how had it got there?

He puzzled over the question, but could find no solution; and when, after finding that his warning was futile so far as Herbert Karne was concerned, he left the Towers, the incident of the crucifix still occupied his mind.

As the foreman shut the gate which led into the private road, a man sprang suddenly out of the darkness, and laid a detaining grip on his shoulder. It was Jacob Strelitzki, somewhat the worse for drink.

“I thought that was what you were going to do, so I followed you up to here,” he said, with a vicious shake. “Been blabbing, I suppose, you mean sneak?”

“Let me go!” cried the foreman, angrily. “I’ve been finding out the truth. You and Horwitz are on the wrong track. Mr. Karne is no more a m’shumad than you are; and his sister did not put the crucifix on the child. There’s been some trickery somewhere. I should not be surprised if you had something to do with it, either, Jacob Strelitzki. I know you have a grudge against Mr. Karne.”

Strelitzki was furious. Hurling various choice epithets at his companion he shook him off with such violence that Blatz fell against the wall, knocking his head, and severely bruising his shoulder.

Strelitzki immediately became repentant. Apologizing for his hasty temper, he saw the foreman to his home, and helped to dress his wounds.

But Blatz was too indisposed to attend the meeting of the factory people the following evening; and as there was no one to tell the truth concerning Herbert Karne and his sister, Strelitzki ruled with unopposed sway.

CHAPTER XI

THE STANNARD BALL, AND AFTER—AN EVENTFUL NIGHT

“Yes, the same old thing, of course; it trots out with never-failing regularity. I have coaxed father every day for a month to let me have a new dress; but he doesn’t see the necessity of incurring such an expense just for the Stannards’ ball. He wouldn’t let me wear a low bodice like yours and Miss Wilton’s either. If I were to appear before him attired in my nightdress with a pale blue ribbon sash, he would say I looked lovely, and would never know what it really was. What is a girl to do with a dad like that?”

“Never mind,” returned Celia, cheerfully. “You look very nice in white. Is your father going with you?”

“Oh no, he wouldn’t go to a dance; it’s too frivolous for him, you know. Mrs. Lester has promised to take me under her wing; but she is sure to want to go home about twelve o’clock—just when the fun begins. That’s where I miss Geoffrey so much. He used to make such a delightful cavalier.”

At the mention of Geoffrey’s name Celia looked up with interest.

“Have you heard from him lately?” she asked.

“Yes. We had a letter this morning. Dick Stannard has joined him in Sydney, and they both expect to be home for Christmas. That will be nice, won’t it? Geoff writes a good deal about a Miss Thornton and her mother, who will be coming to England the same time as themselves. Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if he were engaged to her, although he doesn’t actually say so. I should like to see Geoff married to a nice girl, wouldn’t you, Cely?”

“Ye—es,” answered Celia, mechanically, the colour suddenly leaving her cheeks.

Geoffrey Milnes engaged! She had never thought of that. Yet why should he not think of marrying, just as she herself had done? Why should the thought of his possible marriage cause her heart to sink like a leaden weight? Why should it? But it did.

Since her engagement with David Salmon had been broken off, she had allowed her mind to dwell once more on her old-time friendship with Dr. Milnes. She was looking forward with almost feverish eagerness to his return, and tried to imagine the joy of their meeting. But, if he came back as the lover or husband of some one else! She could scarcely bear to think of it.

Gladys rattled on with her inexhaustible stock of light chatter, not noticing her friend’s sudden pensiveness. She could talk of nothing else but the ball, and favoured Enid Wilton—who was also to be a guest—with a full account of the people who would be there, whilst Celia sat quite quiet, thinking of Miss Thornton.

When the eventful day arrived, Enid was confined to her room with a cold. Her going to the ball was quite out of the question, and in consequence thereof, Celia refused to go either. In vain did Enid protest, and beg her friend not to forego her amusement for her sake. Celia would not be persuaded, and declared that she was not at all anxious to go. She had been to so many dances during the “season” that she had outgrown her liking for them.

As soon as her decision was made, she went downstairs to inform her brother. She found him in the studio, putting the finishing touches to the paintings for the Duke of Downshire’s chapel, prior to their being despatched the following day. There were five of them altogether, all representing incidents of Gospel history.

“I was just thinking of sending an invitation to Mendel’s people to come and have a private view,” he said facetiously. “Do you think they would accept it, Celia?”

“I think they would injure the pictures if they did come,” she rejoined seriously. “And that would be a pity, for they are beautiful things. I like the ‘Annunciation’ the best. You have made the angel Gabriel’s wings quite translucent. You did not paint this one, did you, Herbert?” pointing to an unframed representation of the Crucifixion, which struck her as being somewhat musty in comparison with the others.

The artist smiled. “No, I wish I had,” he replied enthusiastically. “That is a real Raffaelle, my dear. It belongs to the duke, who lent it me as a guide. I had better put it away while I think of it. I wouldn’t have anything happen to that for the world.”

Suiting the action to the word, he wrapped the painting in an holland covering, then placed it carefully in the cupboard under lock and key. The other pictures he left where they were: one on the easel, and the others on the floor facing the French windows.

He thought of them again when he was at the Stannards’ ball, although there was no reason why they should recur to his memory just then. Perhaps it was because the face of his partner reminded him of the features he had given to the Magdalene. He often found resemblances between the people he met and characters in his pictures.

The ball-room was crowded with quite a galaxy of fresh-complexioned country girls escorted in the dance by the young scions of the neighbouring county families; whilst on the platform which bounded the room were ranged in solemn state their chaperons. The absence of Celia Franks caused universal regret; but to one of the guests, at least, the cloud had a silver lining. This was Lady Marjorie Stonor.

“You will let me give you a lift, if you have not ordered your dog-cart to come for you to-night?” she said to the artist, as soon as she found his sister was not there. She did not wish to miss the opportunity of a moonlight drive with him alone.

“It is very kind of you,” he replied politely. “But I have accepted Major Denham’s offer of a seat in his motor-car.”

His refusal almost sounded like a rebuff, but the young widow did not take it in that light. Instead, she flashed him a glance out of those wonderful blue eyes of hers.

“It is such a long drive,” she murmured with a sigh, “and I am all alone. Cannot you countermand your acceptance?”

He would have been more than mortal if he could have withstood such a look and such an appeal.

“It shall be as you wish; I shall be delighted to be your escort,” he answered gallantly, lifting up her programme in order to reserve the conventional three dances for himself.

Lady Marjorie looked her best that evening; and was, perhaps, conscious of the fact. She was dressed in white: yet not girlish white, for her gown was elaborately trimmed with incrustations of handsome lace, in the centre of each of which gleamed a minute ruby. The cluster of red roses at her breast set off to advantage the creamy smoothness of her neck and shoulders. The diamonds in her hair and at her throat seemed to enhance the air of distinction which was hers by birth.

To Herbert Karne she was by far the most brilliant woman in the room, although not being given to indulge in compliments he did not tell her so. But he spent every available moment by her side, and insisted on claiming all the extra dances. For once he broke through his customary reserve, and seemed suddenly to have become an impetuous youth again.

Lady Marjorie was glad that it should be so. To waltz with him to the entrancing strains of the “Blue Danube,” or to sit out with him in the flower-bedecked alcoves afforded her infinite delight. She knew that she was monopolizing the best dancer in the room, and that people were watching and might talk; but her eyes shone defiance at them all.

Her carriage came somewhat early, for she had not anticipated the pleasure of Herbert Karne’s company on the drive home. Fortunately he had not engaged himself for the last two extras; and after the “Sir Roger,” which she was obliged to dance with Squire Stannard, they left.

She gave a little sigh of satisfaction as the footman closed the door, and sprang up to his perch. Herbert drew her white cloak carefully around her, and arranged the rug at her feet. He seemed full of solicitude lest she should catch cold. They were both silent as the brougham bowled smoothly down the drive, and out at the stately gates. As they turned into the dark country road, Major Denham’s motor-car passed them at full speed. When the teuf-teuf died away in the distance, Lady Marjorie spoke.

“I do think Major Denham a terrible creature!” she remarked lightly. “We had quite a hot discussion this evening. He wanted to convince me that love and romance are entirely the result of a defective brain, sluggish liver, or disordered system. Did you ever hear anything so horrible?”

Herbert smiled. “Love’s young dream also?” he inquired.

“Yes; all dreams. I told him I was glad that so few of us possessed perfect systems if that meant doing away with romance. Why, just think of the poets, painters, musicians, and authors, who are all dreamers in their way. How prosaic and dull we should be without them: it is they who keep the world young.”

“I am afraid Major Denham had a firm opponent in you,” he remarked, trifling idly with her fan. “You are endowed with a romantic temperament yourself, Lady Marjie.”

“Well, why not?” she answered half seriously. “When I was a child I used to delight in fairy stories; in fact, I lived in an atmosphere of fairyland. I remember the time when the account of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella made me positively thrill every time I heard it. Then when I outgrew that stage, I got into the habit of idealizing the most trivial incidents: of finding the romantic side to quite prosaic things.”

“On the ‘Sermons in stones; and good in everything’ principle, I suppose?”

“Yes. And now I’m told that it all came from dyspepsia or the liver. No wonder Major Denham is a bachelor. He could not hold such a pernicious theory had he ever loved.”

“You are married,” he said provokingly. “You speak from experience.”

“That doesn’t always follow,” she rejoined, with a sigh. “But of course you cannot know. You, too, are a bachelor.”

Herbert thought the conversation was drifting into an undesirable channel.

“How philosophic we are,” he remarked, leaning back in the carriage to stifle a yawn. “At two o’clock in the morning, too.”

Repelled once again, Lady Marjorie relapsed into silence. Presently a dog-cart passed the carriage coming from the opposite direction. To Karne it had the appearance of his own, but having given orders to Roberts not to fetch him, he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.

Suddenly his companion gave a slight involuntary shiver.

Karne drew her cloak further around her shoulders. “What is the matter?” he asked kindly. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she replied nervously. “A sort of half-presentiment of evil came over me. I can’t explain it. But it doesn’t matter: it has gone now.”

“According to Major Denham’s theory it is the effect of the goose we had for supper,” he rejoined laughingly; but even in the dim moonlight he could see that she was unusually pale.

The brougham approached the Towers through the small gate at the north side of the house, at which angle the studio was built. As it drove through, the occupants detected a faint odour of burning. At the same moment the noisy clatter of horses’ hoofs warned them of the approach of some vehicle: and in the course of a few seconds a fire-engine dashed rapidly past them, causing their horses to swerve sharply to the left.

Herbert let down the window and looked out. A thin line of smoke, emitting sparks, was plainly discernible through the trees. Another bend in the road gave him a closer view.

“Good heavens, Marjorie!” he exclaimed in horror, sinking back into his seat. “It looks as if the Towers were on fire!”

It was the first time he had addressed her without prefixing her title, but she was too excited to notice it just then. The Towers on fire meant that the inmates, including Celia, were in peril: this thought was uppermost in her mind.

Karne gave orders to the coachman to drive faster; and in a short space of time they had arrived upon the scene.

The spectacle that met their gaze confirmed their fears. The Towers was on fire; but as yet the studio only, and not the house, had been attacked. A number of firemen were diligently plying the hose, their endeavours being noisily encouraged by the excited servants.

Persuading Lady Marjorie to remain in the carriage, Herbert sprang out, not waiting for the footman to attend at the door. Every pulse in his body seemed throbbing, but with an effort he pulled himself together, and set about making inquiries with as much calmness as he could muster.

The fire must have been smouldering since the early part of the evening, but had broken out less than an hour ago. Directly the discovery was made, Roberts had been sent off in the dog-cart to give the alarm and fetch his master. The firemen had been able to remove some of the paintings out of the studio, but those on the walls and floor were blistered by the heat; and four of the larger ones were totally destroyed.

They had got the fire well under, and were hopeful of extinguishing it without much further damage. There was little danger of its attacking the house on account of the stone passage and stairs.

So much Herbert Karne learnt from the eager servants. Then he went back to the brougham to take Lady Marjorie into the house.

Celia, in a loose dressing-gown, with her hair flowing over her shoulders, met them on the stairs.

“Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed, with a sigh that was almost a sob. “The Raffaelle—where’s the key? Go quickly; you may be able to save it yet.”

Her brother could not take in her meaning at first, but suddenly comprehension dawned upon him.

“Good heavens, yes! The Duke of Downshire’s picture! He will never forgive me if that gets burnt.”

“Where is the key?” repeated the girl, excitedly.

“I have it here in my pocket. But it is a patent lock; the firemen won’t be able to manipulate it. I shall have to do it myself;” and tossing his silk scarf to his sister, he dashed down the stairs.

Celia drew Lady Marjorie into the library, and gave her a chair by the window overlooking the studio. Her face was pale and anxious; she looked as if she had received a painful shock.

“I have persuaded Miss Wilton to go back to bed,” she said, sinking on to the couch with a shiver. “She has such a bad cold. Isn’t this dreadful, Lady Marjorie? I shall never feel safe here again; and I shall be so anxious for Herbert when I am away. It is incendiarism, you know.”

Her friend gave an ejaculation of horror.

“Are you sure?” she asked in astonishment. “How do you know that it was not accident?”

“The firemen found some ignited boards soaked in oil against the studio walls,” Celia replied. “One of them had ‘Mendel and Co.’ painted on the back. It’s the factory people. They have been threatening us for some time, as you are aware; but we never dreamt of this. If there had been the slightest breeze we should have been burnt right out.”

“The wretches!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie. “I hope they will get the imprisonment they deserve. We must be thankful, however, that the danger was not greater; it might have been worse.”

She glanced through the window, and remarked with satisfaction that, although the engines were still at work, the smoke had dissolved, and the flames were quenched.

Suddenly the measured tread of heavy feet on the lower staircase made her turn quickly towards the door. Tramp, tramp, they came, and an icy fear gripped her heart as she listened. Expecting she knew not what, she nervously made her way to the landing, and looked over the balustrade.

A small procession of firemen and servants were coming up the stairs. What did they want up there, she wondered vaguely. They seemed to be carrying something ... a motionless form with arms hanging limply down. Some one had evidently been injured—perhaps worse. With a shudder she looked away, and for a moment everything swam before her eyes; until a smothered sob from Celia recalled her to herself.

The firemen came nearer, and turning into an adjacent room, deposited their burden on the bed. As though fascinated, Lady Marjorie followed. The servants made way for her, although one of them would fain have spared her the painful sight. With a low cry of grief and terror, she advanced towards the bed, for on it lay the apparently lifeless figure of the man she loved!

Celia, with praiseworthy calmness, was bathing his face, whilst Higgins attempted to remove his blackened dress-coat, the left sleeve of which had been partly burnt away. One servant was hunting for lint, another for iodoform, a third for vaseline; but Lady Marjorie saw none of them. She was conscious only of that white set face with the long black lashes drooping over the pallid cheeks. Flinging off her cloak, she bent over him, and began whispering all the endearing names she could think of. Conventional discretion was for the moment set aside.

Presently he seemed to regain consciousness; and, at a look of warning from Celia, she removed the diamond star which blazed on her breast, casting it heedlessly on the floor. A quivering of the eyelids, a slight moan; and then the sufferer looked up and met her gaze.

“Thank God!” she ejaculated under her breath. “Oh, Herbert darling, I thought you were dead!”

He tried to smile, but the pain in his arm caused his face to contract in agony. Then—“The picture?” he gasped. It was for that he had risked his life.

“That’s all right, sir; it’s quite safe,” Higgins assured him; and with a sigh he closed his eyes again.

After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Forrest arrived. Herbert’s arm was badly burnt from the shoulder to the elbow, but the doctor feared the effect of the shock even more than the actual injury. He prescribed absolute quietude for his patient, and with firm but kindly insistence persuaded Lady Marjorie to return to her home.

She did not want to go, and could hardly bear to tear herself away, but she was sensible enough to admit that she could do no good by remaining. The doctor reminded her also that she had her servants and horses to consider.

So once more she bent over Herbert to say good-bye. He was more comfortable now, and his face had relaxed its expression of pain. Feeling the fragrance of her perfumed hair, he opened his eyes, and there was a look in them she had never seen before—a look which made her heart beat high.

With her face close to his she whispered her farewell, and listened joyfully to his murmured response—

“I’m all right now, little woman. Good-bye.”

Then she kissed Celia, and, putting on her cloak again, went forth to resume her interrupted drive. The fire appeared to be totally extinguished by this time; but the hose continued to play upon the heated roof. Two of the engines were about to depart, one having already left.

Lady Marjorie watched them with mingled feelings. She regretted the damage to the studio and paintings, she grieved for the painful injury to Herbert’s arm; but if, as she diffidently hoped, the fire had been the means of kindling the artist’s love for herself, both he and she would forget the temporary misfortune in the aftermath of joy that would be theirs.

CHAPTER XII

A WOMAN’S LOVE

Herbert Karne made slow progress towards recovery. At first he seemed, as the doctor feared he would be, thoroughly prostrated by the shock to the system; and his convalescence was attended by a fit of nervous depression most difficult to combat. It was, no doubt, due to the discouraging fact that three out of the four pictures for the Duke of Downshire’s chapel would have to be done over again, thus entailing months of wasted labour. He greatly regretted, also, the destruction by fire of the best picture he had possessed of his and Celia’s mother, which had occupied the most prominent position in the studio. He had often imagined that this picture—the beautiful face with its coronet of bronze-gold hair so like Celia’s, the dark eyes, the smiling lips—had proved a source of inspiration to him when engaged at his work; and without it, the studio, when rebuilt, would look incomplete.

Celia was due at the Havilands’ house in St. John’s Wood the week after the fire; and although she would much have preferred to stay and nurse her brother, she found herself unable to cancel her engagement. As the time drew near she began to wish that she had not consented to become a temporary actress—for that was what it amounted to. Taking Enid Wilton’s advice, she wrote a letter to that effect to Mr. Guy Haviland, and received an answer by return. The dramatist begged her not to disappoint him; for he had quite set his heart on her filling the rôle of Mallida, the chief character in the play; and arrangements for its production had been fully planned. So there was nothing for it but to submit; and having decided to go through with the venture, Celia made up her mind to do her very best.

The Towers seemed very quiet when the two girls had gone; and its master would have felt very lonely had it not been for the kind attention of Lady Marjorie Stonor, who drove over to see him every day—sometimes twice in the day. He looked forward with eagerness to her coming, for she made a delightful companion; and being gifted with more than the average amount of tact, knew exactly how to adapt her mood to his. She could be loquacious or silent, gay or grave, flippant or thoughtful; it was all one to her so long as she amused and entertained the invalid.

Their friendship had ripened considerably since the fire. They had slipped into the habit of calling each other by their first names; he never thought of prefixing her title now. Sometimes, when she arranged the cushions in his chair—which, by the way, was not at all necessary, even if he did carry his arm in a sling—she dropped a light butterfly kiss on his forehead; and then smiled at him naïvely, like a child who has been guilty of some particularly audacious trick. And everything she did, came so naturally and sweetly from her, that there seemed nothing extraordinary in her guileless intimacy towards him.

Herbert Karne told himself over and over again, that for the sake of his honour and her happiness he ought to repel her advances, as he had done before. He knew that he and she were drifting towards a rock marked dangerous, and that shipwreck would inevitably ensue. He knew it; but he was weakened by illness: he seemed to have lost all his power of resistance. What is a man to do when a pretty woman—and a good woman—looks love at him out of baby blue eyes, and practises all the artless wiles of her sex to enslave him? When Lady Marjorie chose to be charming, she was very charming indeed. It would have needed a veritable misanthropist to have withstood her, when once she had made up her mind to conquer.

And so the days sped on—days full of poetry, romance, and love-dreams; and one afternoon the climax came. They were having a tête-à-tête tea in the drawing-room, when, as it happened, Reggie Stannard dropped in to inquire how the artist was going on. In the hall he was waylaid by young Bobbie Stonor, who wished to ask his advice about a peg-top he was endeavouring to spin. Bobbie was in the habit of roaming about the house when his mother visited Mr. Karne, for the lore of love had no interest for him. In the course of conversation, he referred to the new papa he was going to have; and, on being questioned, said that his nurse had told him that Mr. Karne would soon be his papa. So Stannard came to the conclusion that Herbert Karne must be engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor, a conviction which was deepened when he entered the drawing-room to find the two sitting opposite each other at a small tea-table with their faces close together, conversing in low tones.

They evidently did not hear Higgins announce him; so in order to attract their attention, he coughed somewhat significantly. Lady Marjorie jumped up as if she had been shot. Herbert Karne, however, retained his equilibrium.

“Ha, Reggie, glad to see you!” he said, extending his uninjured arm. “When did you arrive? We did not hear you come in.”

The young fellow shook hands with Lady Marjorie. “Only a few minutes ago,” he replied. “I have been talking to Bobs in the hall. I hope I—er—do not intrude?”—looking from one to the other with a glance of meaning.

“Not at all,” answered Karne, quickly. “A visit from you could never be an intrusion.”

Reggie was young and correspondingly imprudent. “It is very kind of you to say so,” he rejoined, accepting the cup of tea which Lady Marjorie handed to him. “Only two is company and three is none, isn’t it? May I—er—be the first to offer my—er—congratulations—and all that sort of thing, don’t you know?”

The colour flamed into Lady Marjorie’s cheeks.

“Congratulations?” repeated Herbert, with a puzzled air. “Oh; on my recovery, I suppose! Yes, I am going on very nicely, thank you, Reggie; my arm is nearly well.”

He hoped that the contretemps was averted, but unfortunately it was not. The young man had less gumption than he gave him credit for.

“Oh—er—I didn’t mean that,” he pursued provokingly. “I—er—that is to say—I was told that you and her ladyship were going to make a match of it, so to speak. I was delighted to hear the news.”

Karne’s brow clouded. “I am afraid that you have been misinformed,” he replied evenly, not trusting himself to look at Lady Marjorie; and Reggie Stannard, feeling somehow that he had blundered, begged his pardon and changed the subject.

Lady Marjorie’s feelings were in a tumult, but she joined in the conversation with merry vivacity; and Stannard had not the faintest idea that her gaiety was strained, and that she was longing for him to go all the time. Karne knew, however, and watched her in silence. He felt like a patient who awaits the surgeon’s knife. If there must needs be pain, he wanted to get it over quickly.

There was an awkward silence when Stannard eventually left. They both felt that there was something to be said; and neither knew exactly how to begin.

At last Lady Marjorie came over and stood by his chair.

“Am I so very distasteful to you, then, Herbert?” she said.

“Distasteful? What an idea!” he replied, not meeting her gaze. “Why, a man never had a more indefatigable nurse or truer friend than you, Marjorie.”

“And yet you denied the rumour that Stannard brought as calmly as if it meant nothing,” she rejoined, her words coming with difficulty. “And I—oh, how can I say it? Herbert, I can’t repress my feelings any longer. You may despise me for telling you, but I can’t help it. I love you. I love you! And all the world knows it except yourself.”

“Because I dare not know it; I must not know it,” he exclaimed impetuously. “Love cannot be for me.”

The blow had fallen; the pain was worse than he had anticipated. How could he tell the woman who believed in him that he had deceived her; that he had stolen her love under false pretences?

He looked up and saw the tender love-light in her eyes. She reminded him of a child waiting to be fondled and petted; she evidently had not taken in the meaning of his words. Rising, he paced the room—as was his custom when disturbed—and because of his agitation, his manner seemed almost harsh.

“Marjorie!” She looked up eagerly, but her heart sank as she noted the expression on his face. “Marjorie, I’m a cad and a scoundrel. I am going to hurt you: it ought to have been done long ago, then it wouldn’t have been so bad. When Stannard congratulated us like that, my first impulse was to accept his congratulations for us both. Then I remembered I couldn’t, because—I’m not free. Nearly twelve years ago, when I was just twenty-one, I was married, and, though I know not where she is, my wife still lives.”

“Married!” She uttered an exclamation of astonished dismay, and caught hold of the table to steady herself. Herbert thought she was going to faint, for every vestige of colour left her face; but she did not. Instead, she threw herself on to the couch and covered her face with her hands. Married. Married! Oh, if he had met his death on the night of the fire she could have borne it better than this!

He half expected her to overwhelm him with reproaches; but she was one of those sweet-natured women who will kiss the hand that strikes them down. He was her hero, and she loved him, and nothing that he had done could alter that fact. But her face, when she turned it towards him, was a greater reproach than any words could have been. All the brightness, the vivacity, seemed to have been suddenly crushed out of it; she had grown years older in a moment of time.

“Will you tell me all about it?” she said presently, in a voice quite unlike her own. “I am sorry to have to rake up what I presume is a—a painful subject, but I think I—ought to know.”

“Yes; you have a right to know,” he rejoined dully. “Twelve years ago I studied art in Paris. There I met a girl, who, from the first day I knew her, exercised a peculiar fascination over me. Her name was Ninette Douste, her father being Scotch, her mother French, and although so young she was already a widow, her husband having been lost at sea. Ninette was an artist’s model in the daytime, and a dancer in the evening; and although of doubtful reputation, was always anxious to impress upon me the fact that her father was a gentleman. She was fairly well-educated herself, but erratic and unprincipled in the extreme. All the money she earned went to back horses; it seemed quite unnatural for such a young girl to be so infatuated with racing. She laughed at me when I remonstrated with her about it, and called me a prude. Well, Ninette and I eventually got engaged, although, being as variable and capricious as the wind, she broke off the engagement about two or three times a week. I don’t think she ever loved me—she always treated me with good-humoured contempt; but I was a young fool, and she had me completely under her spell. We were married, without the knowledge of my parents, at the English Consulate in Paris, and intended going to Montmorency for our honeymoon. On the afternoon of the wedding, however, I received a telegram announcing the death of my mother, which necessitated my going home immediately; for my step-father, Bernie Franks, was away in South Africa. I left Ninette in Paris until—after the funeral—I could settle our future plans. When I returned, she had vanished, and I have never seen her from that day to this.”

Lady Marjorie uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Did you not make inquiries?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, I made full inquiries, but in vain, and to be candid, I was not dissatisfied with the result. When I returned to England, and mixed among my friends again, I saw how foolish I had been to imagine I could be happy with a woman of Ninette’s calibre: the scales seemed to suddenly fall from my eyes. Then the responsibility of Celia’s up-bringing devolved upon my shoulders; and I was secretly glad to think that she would be spared the undesirable companionship of my wife. Celia is still unaware of my marriage.”

“And did you never hear anything of your—your wife?”

“Yes. I received a letter from her a few months after the wedding asking for money, but vouchsafing no explanation of her strange conduct. I went to the address—it was in London—and found it to be a small stationer’s shop. The woman in charge said a foreign man always came for the letters, but he spoke little English, and she knew nothing about him. Without pursuing my quest further I sent the money, and asked Ninette to come back to me, or at least to grant an interview. She refused to do either, and wrote that she considered our marriage a mistake, adding that as long as I sent her a little money occasionally, for her favourite pastime, she would trouble me no further. I was not sorry to get out of the wood that way, and complied with her request, generally sending the money to the Poste Restante, Paris. After a while, however, I grew tired of despatching large sums to be squandered on betting, and told her so, whereupon she threatened to come to Durlston and assume her rightful place as mistress of the Towers. She evidently knew that I had some sort of a position there; and that for a wife—and such a wife—to suddenly appear on the scene would reflect discredit upon myself. That was about three or four years ago; and curiously enough, I have had no word from her since. I began to believe that she must be dead; but a friend of mine—the only one who knows my secret—has seen her twice during the last six months, once at Monte Carlo, and the second time alighting from a Channel boat at Dover. On both occasions he tried to get an opportunity of speaking to her, but she evaded him, and he lost her in the crowd. So that is how the matter stands, Marjorie. I have not a wife in the true sense of the word, yet I am fettered by the marriage laws. It is a cruel predicament for a man to be placed in.”

“Why did you not tell me all this before?” she said, with the first touch of reproach. “Oh, it was cruel of you to pose as a bachelor all this time—especially cruel towards me. I would have died rather than have confessed my love, had I known the truth.”

She spoke quite calmly, but she could not repress the tear which trembled on her lash. It wended its way down her cheek when Karne admitted that he had been cruel, foolish, and weak; woman-like she could not bear to hear him blame himself.

And then she began to think of the future—her lonely, empty future. All the castles she had built in the air—the happy day-dreams of a life blessed with love—struck down at one blow. She had been living in a fool’s paradise; now she would reap the consequences of her folly.

Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her; and an eager yet half-frightened expression came into her eyes.

“Herbert, if you were free, would you marry me?” she questioned, in a low tremulous voice. “Don’t be afraid of hurting me; I want to know the truth.”

“I would marry you to-morrow if I could,” he answered despondently. “Do you think this doesn’t hurt me as well as you? I am not quite such a brute as to filch a woman’s love, and then toss it aside without caring, Marjorie. Besides, you’ve been so sweet and good to me. A man couldn’t know you as I do, without loving you and wanting to be loved in return. I’ve tried to steel my heart against you all along, but it was impossible. Love is so strong; it will not be bound down by rules and regulations: it has been too powerful for you and me.”

“Yes, love is strong,” she repeated breathlessly. “Stronger than death. We can’t stifle its promptings any more than we can stay the flow of the waves. It’s the future I’m thinking of, dearest, the future. What shall we do?... What shall we do?... Nobody knows about your wife—nobody need know.... Couldn’t we—just you and I—go right away, out of England, perhaps, and—— Oh, God, what am I saying? Herbert, Herbert, you have broken my heart!”

She hid her face in the silken sofa-cushions, and burst into a torrent of weeping. For the moment she felt as if she could never look any one in the face again. An overwhelming sense of shame took possession of her whole being. Worst of all, she had lost her self-respect in the eyes of the man she loved!

But Herbert knew that her words were the result of a mind distorted by anguish, for it was surely not the pure and virtuous Marjorie who thus set herself forth as temptress! Flinging himself down by the couch, he tried to comfort and soothe her, begging her forgiveness for the suffering he had caused. And then he reminded her, that, in spite of the dreariness of the outlook, she still would have the comfort of her child.

“Yes, thank God I have my child!” she murmured brokenly. “Life would not be worth living—now—without Bobbie.”

Presently the clock struck six—the time she usually went home. She rose to her feet and dried her eyes; and scarcely had she done so ere the door opened to admit her little son, armed with her cloak and hat. Fortunately, being dusk, he did not notice the unwonted dejection of her manner, or that her eyes were red with weeping.

Lady Marjorie sent him off to see if the carriage had arrived; then, when the last sound of his little feet trotting down the stairs died away, she turned once more towards Karne.

“This must be our good-bye, Herbert,” she said, in a muffled voice. “Of course I cannot come here any more. Do not tell Celia the reason; I would rather she did not know.”

“As you wish,” he replied gloomily. “You’ve no idea how I shall miss your visits, Marjorie. Must it really be good-bye?”

“Yes,” she rejoined quickly. “To look into your eyes, to hear you speak, would be torture to me now—I couldn’t bear it. Away from you I may be able to forget. That is what will be my chief aim in the future—to forget.”

“Perhaps some day—” he began hopefully. But she shook her head. His wife was just as likely to live as long as either of themselves.

“I wonder if you will ever really forgive me?” he added sadly. “I shall never forgive myself.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, true to the innate sweetness of her nature. “There was no adequate reason why you should have kept your marriage a secret from me all these years; it was quite unnecessary. But we all make mistakes sometimes. It was not your fault that I was so foolish as to give my love unasked.”

She paused, for Bobbie reappeared upon the scene. Herbert wished to escort his visitors to the carriage; but Lady Marjorie reminded him that he was still an invalid: it was cold and draughty downstairs.

Bobbie endorsed her statement; and advised him to remain where he was.

“I’ll ’scort mother,” he said cheerfully. “I know how to take care of her quite as well as any growed-up person. Come along, mother. You’ll be all right with me.”

“I am glad that you have such a worthy protector,” Herbert said in a low voice, aside. “I trust he may ever be as attentive as he is now.”

“I trust so,” she rejoined, the tears springing to her eyes. “Good-bye—Mr. Karne.”

She held out her small ungloved hand. He pressed it gently, then almost reverently raised it to his lips.

“Good-bye, Lady Marjorie—good-bye.”

One last look—and then she was gone. All the freshness and brightness of the room seemed to go with her. Herbert shivered, and rang the bell for a lamp; for some inexplicable reason he could not endure the glare of the electric light just then. All the evening he remained in his chair, deep in thought; and having left his dinner untested, went despondently to bed.

On the following afternoon, the weather being congenial, he went for a stroll. Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards Durlston House, although he had not the slightest intention of calling there. To his surprise he found all the blinds down, the house having an unwonted appearance of desertion. Without pausing to think twice, he rang the bell, and inquired for Lady Marjorie Stonor. The lodge-keeper informed him that her mistress had left suddenly for London, where she intended leaving her son at school. From thence she would proceed to Paris en route for the South. More she did not know.

Karne thanked the woman and turned away. Suddenly he paused, and looking up at the silent windows, raised his hat, as though greeting a friend. “Poor Marjorie!” he exclaimed softly to himself, heaving a deep sigh. “Poor little Marjorie!”

Then, squaring his shoulders, he resumed his walk.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ACME FURNISHING CO.

Then she sat down at the table, and went on with her interrupted letter to David Salmon, which had been the cause of her mother’s outburst of wrath. It really was most annoying from Mrs. Friedberg’s point of view. The Rev. Isaac Abrahams had found a very nice man possessing the necessary qualifications for a chosan;[20] and Dinah, taking a foolish dislike to him at their first meeting, refused point-blank to have anything to do with him, scarcely treating him with civility. Moreover, she declared her intention of marrying David Salmon or nobody: and as David earned barely sufficient to gratify his extravagant tastes, much less keep a wife, such a decision was ridiculous in the extreme.

“What fault have you to find with Mr. Finkelstein?” her mother asked in exasperation. “He may not be good-looking, but looks are not everything. He’s got a good business, which is the chief thing, and I’m sure he is a very amiable sort of fellow. Girls are so particular nowadays. I suppose you would prefer one of those penny-novelette young men, with blue eyes and a curly moustache, eh?”

Dinah shrugged her shoulders. “I won’t consent to marry a man I couldn’t kiss,” she jerked out, nibbling the end of her pen.

“What nonsense!” rejoined Mrs. Friedberg, smiling in spite of herself. “I have never heard of such a thing. Besides, if it comes to that, I see no reason why you should not kiss Mr. Finkelstein.”

The girl made a grimace, and shuddered. “Ugh!” she exclaimed. “Fancy kissing that! Why, he’s got a beard like a door-mat. He looks as though a visit to the Hampstead swimming-baths wouldn’t do him any harm, either. There is too much of the Schneider-how-ye-vas? about him for me, thank you, Ma. You can tell him that I am already engaged.”

“But you are not already engaged,” her mother rejoined with anger. “A girl is not engaged until she has the ring. I wish you would have done with this nonsense, Dinah. You cannot marry David while he is in his present position; and you are not going to waste the best years of your youth in waiting for him. So understand that.”

Dinah went on writing in silence, knowing that words were useless in the present instance. When her mother had gone out of the room she produced a small case from her pocket, and, opening it, disclosed a pretty pearl and diamond ring, which she slipped on her finger. It was not half as valuable as Celia’s had been, but Dinah was quite satisfied with it, and wore it with a sense of proud possession. Her lover was at present away on business in the north of England, but she heard from him nearly every day. He always addressed his letters to the care of the Brookes, next door—Harold very kindly handing them to her over the garden-wall,—so her mother had not the slightest idea that the two refractory young people were carrying on such an ardent correspondence.

As soon as his engagement with Celia Franks was broken off, David had gone to Dinah for consolation; and the merry dark-eyed girl had responded to his attentions with a spontaneity that was quite refreshing. She had always been fond of him, even when she had snubbed him so cruelly, and, now that he was free, she did not hesitate to tell him so.

Before he went away, he proposed to her, and gave her the ring; but on account of the opposition of her parents, they decided to keep their engagement strictly private for the present. Dinah, however, was not quite happy about it. The prospect of being engaged for an indefinite period did not please her—it was too vague. One thing was certain, they could not get married without Mr. and Mrs. Friedberg’s consent, for to do so would mean the loss of the dowry and wedding-presents. It was a very mundane reason; but it had to be considered, for they could not possibly afford to dispense with such matrimonial perquisites.

Whilst David was away, Dinah was struck with an idea. She would try to enlist the sympathy of her brother-in-law, Mike Rosen, who was her lover’s employer, and see what good that would do. So she waited for an opportunity; and one morning, when her mother had gone to Lottie’s house in Canonbury for the day, jumped on an omnibus for the city. She hoped Mike would not mind her going to see him at his place of business, but she knew that if she went to Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Adeline was sure to be there, and she wanted to see him alone.

The Acme Furnishing Company’s premises were situated in the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road. Dinah found them with little difficulty, for, by dint of extensive advertising, they were well-known. She stood outside and surveyed the well-stocked windows with admiration. Each window represented a bedroom or sitting-room in miniature, fitted with all the latest improvements in the furnishing line. Mike Rosen must be very rich to be the owner of such a magnificent establishment, she thought.

Her intention was to go in and inquire for her brother-in-law straightway; but with her usual aptitude for fun, she thought she would amuse herself first. So with a bold step and a merry twinkle in her eye, she pushed open the swing-door, and stepped inside. A young man in a fashionable frock coat came forward to attend to her requirements. Dinah put on her most dignified manner.

“I have come,” she said, sinking on to a comfortable settee with an air of importance, “in answer to an advertisement of yours in the Daily Post, in which you term yourselves the benefactors of mankind.”

“Yes, madam?”

“You offer to accommodate young couples just about to get married, with furniture on the easy-payment system. I am just about to get married, and I want to pay easily, if you can understand.”

“Quite so, madam?” The young man regarded her with gravity. “How many rooms would you require to furnish?”

“I can hardly tell you yet. We have not yet decided whether it is to be a little back room in Bloomsbury or a villa in Hampstead. It all depends on circumstances. Lots of things depend on circumstances, don’t they?” she added with a sweet smile.

“Quite so, madam.” The young man thought her a somewhat queer customer.

“I have not come to order anything to-day,” she continued with dignity. “I’ve only come to inspect. You say in your advertisement ‘Inspection invited,’ you know. By-the-by, if we can’t pay up to date, I suppose you come and grab the chairs and tables, don’t you? That is a disadvantage—a decided disadvantage.”

The clerk cleared his throat. “Well, madam,” he replied, “we always endeavour to exercise the greatest leniency possible. Of course, before we send any goods to your—ahem—place of abode, we shall have to satisfy ourselves as to your ability to pay. I do not suppose you will object to our making full inquiries?”

“Oh, not at all,” said Dinah, complacently. Why should she object?

“Unlike some firms, we conduct our business on thoroughly honourable and equitable principles,” the young man went on to assure her. “Then there is our free insurance scheme. If your husband were to die——”

“Oh, but he is not going to die,” the girl interposed quickly. “Why, he has only just begun to live!”

“Just so, madam; but life at best is uncertain. I was going to say that, were your husband unfortunately to die, the furniture would be yours—as his widow—without any further payment.”

“How nice!” Dinah murmured. “You give me the cold shivers down my back. Widow indeed! And I’m not even married yet. Can I see your chief this morning?”

The clerk looked dubious. “That is scarcely necessary, madam, at this stage of the proceedings,” he replied. “The head of our firm is a very busy man——”

But Dinah had espied a familiar figure looming in the background—a figure with a broad waistcoat and a heavy gold chain.

“Mike!”

“Dinah! Why, what an unexpected treat this is, little girl!”

He came forward to greet her, his good-natured face beaming with pleasure. Dinah bowed with a saucy air of apology to the astonished clerk, and favoured her brother-in-law with a hearty kiss. Then she linked her arm in his, and passed down a narrow passage which was lined on either side with bedsteads of every description.

“Mike,” she said impressively, “I have come to talk to you about something very serious. I am going to take you into my confidence; that is why I have come down here. It is just between ourselves. Do you understand?”

Mike nodded gravely. “Perfectly,” he replied. “You will do well to take me into your confidence. But it is just my luncheon-time. Thompson, lay another knife and fork, please”—this to another of his numerous clerks. “Things of importance are much better discussed after lunch, you know. You are not in a hurry to get home?”

“No, Ma is out, so it doesn’t matter. You are not vexed with me for coming here, Mike?”

“Not at all, not at all. Quite delighted, I assure you. It’s not often I get a visitor to lunch, though Adeline brings the kiddie occasionally.”

He led the way up a short flight of stairs to a room marked “private,” and, opening the door, stood back for Dinah to enter. Although not large, it was a sumptuously furnished room, fitted with all the comforts that the owner could possibly desire. Red was the predominant tone, the wall-paper, carpet, hangings and upholstery being all of that colour. A large pigeon-hole cabinet and desk combined took up the whole of one wall, whilst a small card-table bore testimony to the fact that the proprietor was not averse to a little recreation in the midst of work. One picture only adorned the walls: it was an enlarged portrait of the woman he cared most about—his wife.

Dinah inspected her surroundings with undisguised approval, then sat down to the table, which gleamed with the finest cutlery and silver.

Suddenly something pink streaked with fat caught her eye. She glanced at it casually at first, then fixedly, and finally gasped in astonishment.

“Mike, you humbug!” she exclaimed in a tone of pained surprise. “It’s—it’s—ham!”

Mike felt himself go red down to the back of his neck. What an idiot he was not to have ordered the unlawful viand to be removed before the girl entered the room—but he had scarcely had time.

“Yes,” he replied with exaggerated carelessness, “my doctor recommends it as an extremely nutritious article of food. Adeline objects to have it in the house at all at home, so I am obliged to partake of it down here. However, I will not hurt your feelings by offering you any. This is a very tender chicken.”

He proceeded to carve the bird, handing a well-filled plate of it to his guest.

Dinah’s face fell. Looking longingly at the ham, she began to trifle with her chicken.

“I suppose I had better not ask whether this is kosher?” she inquired diffidently.

“Oh, it is quite kosher; it came from Abrahams’,” Mike answered quickly. “I would not offer it to you unless it were.”

He poured out two wine-glasses full of port: it was ’57 port. Dinah clinked her glass against his, and drank. Then she looked at the ham again, and sighed.

“Have a bit?” suggested her brother-in-law, with a sly wink.

She shook her head, but it was not a very decided kind of shake. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, with a feeble attempt at casuistry—

“Mike, the ham has rubbed shoulders with the chicken. They are both on the same dish, therefore one is no more kosher than the other. I think you may give me a piece just about the size of a sixpence. I’ve never tasted it before in my life.”

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity. “Here, give me your plate. If you eat a little bit, it’s just as bad—or as good—as eating the whole lot. There—now what do you think of it?”

Dinah cut a small piece, and pricked it with her fork. “‘Get a piece of pork,’” she murmured softly, “‘and stick it on a fork, and give it to the——’” Here she popped it into her mouth. “Oh, Mike, it’s positively scrumptious. But you won’t tell Ma, will you?”

“Oh no, I won’t split on you,” he replied cheerfully. “You see, we are both in the same boat.”

Pushing back his chair, he rose from the table; for a ring on the telephone claimed his attention.

“Do you know who that was?” he said, when he sat down again. “It was Mr. Salmon talking from Manchester. I would have told him you were here, but there was no time.”

“It is about David that I have come to see you,” Dinah began, somewhat nervously. “You must not tell anybody yet, but we are engaged.”

Her brother-in-law raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “Why, I thought that Ma——”

“Yes, Ma and Pa are both against it,” she hastened to explain. “That is the trouble. But I have quite made up my mind not to have Mr. Finkelstein or any other snuffy old creature they may choose to rake up for me. I am going to marry the man I love, and that is David. Oh, I love him so much, Mike—awfully much! I feel I shall do something desperate if anything happens to prevent us from marrying.”

She spoke quickly, and evidently meant what she said. Mike puckered up his brow, and having obtained the requisite permission, lit a cigar.

“It’s a pity,” he said between the puffs. “Couldn’t you place your affections on somebody more reliable than Salmon? I don’t say he’s not a nice lad—in fact, I rather like him myself; but he is not steady, he doesn’t stick to his business. I should like to see you comfortably married, Di, but to somebody with more backbone than David Salmon.”

“I know he is not a saint,” she answered eagerly. “I don’t want him to be. I couldn’t stand a paragon of perfection for more than a week. But he is not bad, Mike. You have no idea how good-hearted he really is. And he has promised me not to bet or gamble any more. Oh, I’ll make him stick to his business when we are married; you don’t know what a tremendous influence I have over him.”

“H’m!” Mike grunted, and scratched the back of his head. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to give him a lift,” she pleaded earnestly; “to put him in a position that will enable him to marry me with the consent of my parents. I wouldn’t ask you to help us if you were not such a thoroughly good fellow, Mike. You give away such large sums in charity, that I thought you wouldn’t mind going in for a little of that charity which begins at home. You offered to take David into partnership when he married, you know.”