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CHAPTER XI.
A Fable about Birds

Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, being left to their own resources, had employed the afternoon in paying a visit to Ethel Roberts, and nothing was wanting to fill Dale's cup of vexation to overflowing, unless it were to have Nellie flying open-mouthed at him, as he grumblingly expressed it, with a tale of the distress in the Doctor's household. Ethel Roberts had the fortitude to bear her troubles, the added fortitude to bear them cheerfully, but not the supreme fortitude which refuses to tell a tale of woe to any ear, however sympathetic. She did not volunteer information, but she did allow it to be dragged out of her, and the barriers of her reserve broke down before Mrs. Hodge's homely consolations and Nellie's sorrowful horror. They were reduced, she admitted, in effect to living on little else than her own wretched income; the practice brought in hardly more than it took out, for, while the rich patients failed, the poor remained; the rent was overdue, bills were unpaid, and the butcher, the milkman, and the coal merchant were growing sulky.

"And while," said Mrs. Hodge, "that poor young creature is pinching, and starving, and crying, the man's thinking of nothing but Nihilists and what not. I'd Nihilist him!"

Dinner was served to Dale with sauce of this sort.

"Can I prevent fools suffering for their folly?" he asked.

"The baby looks so ill," said Nellie, "and Mrs. Roberts is worn to a shadow."

"Did you see Roberts?" asked Philip.

"For a minute," said Nellie, "but he was very cold and disagreeable."

"Thought you were tarred with the same brush as Dale, I suppose?"

"Can't you do anything for 'em, Dale?" asked Mrs. Hodge.

"I can send him a check."

"He'll send it back," remarked Philip.

"I wish he'd get out of the place."

"Yes, he might as well be miserable somewhere else, mightn't he?"

Dale glared at his friend, and relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, in spite of Philip's prediction, he sat down after dinner and wrote to Roberts, saying that he had heard that he was in temporary embarrassment, and urging him to allow Dale to be his banker for the moment; this would, Dale added, be the best way of showing that he bore no malice for Dale's letter. He sent a man with the note, ordering him to wait for an answer.

The answer was not long in coming; the man was back in half an hour, bringing the Doctor's reply:

Three months ago I should have thought it an honor to share my last crust with you, and no shame to ask half of all you had. Now I will not touch a farthing of your money until you come back to us. If your friends pay my wife further visits, I shall be obliged if they will look somewhat less keenly at my household arrangements.

James Roberts.

"There is the snub you have brought on me!" exclaimed Dale angrily, flinging the letter to Nellie. "I might have known better than to listen to your stories."

"Dale, Dale, it was every word true. How selfish he is not to think of his wife!"

"Many people are selfish."

"Is anything the matter, Dale?"

"Oh, I'm infernally worried. I never get any peace."

"Hadn't you a good time skating?"

"No. I'm beginning to hate this place."

"Oh, Dale, I've enjoyed my visit so much!"

"Very glad to hear it, I'm sure."

"You must have seen it; we've stayed so long. I've often told mamma we ought to be going."

Dale lit a cigarette.

"Indeed we have had no mercy on you, Dale; but the country and the rest are so delightful."

"Hum – in some ways."

"But I must be back at work. Mamma thought next Saturday would do."

"As soon as that?" said Dale, with polite surprise.

"Think how long we have been here."

"Oh, don't go on Saturday!"

Nellie's face brightened.

"Don't you want us to?" she asked, with an eager little smile. Dale was going to be kind after all.

"No. Why shouldn't you stay till Monday?"

The face fell, the smile disappeared; but she answered, saving her self-respect:

"Saturday is more convenient for – for arriving in town. I think we had better fix Saturday, Dale."

"As you like. Sorry to lose you, Nell."

He sauntered off to the smoking room to join Philip. When Philip came into the drawing room half an hour later in search of a book, he found Nellie sitting before the fire. He took his stand on the hearthrug, and looked steadily down on her.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a very beautiful bird who, as it chanced, grew up with a lot of crows. For a long while he liked the crows, and the crows liked him – very much, some of them. Both he and the crows were pleased when the eagles and all the swell birds admired him, and said nice things about him, and wanted to know him – and the crows who liked him most were most pleased. Presently he did come to know the eagles and the other swell birds, and he liked them very much, and he began to get a little tired of the old crows, and by and by he left their company a good deal. He was a polite bird and a kind bird, and never told them that he didn't want them any more. But they saw he didn't."

There was a little sob from the armchair.

"Whereupon some of them broke their hearts, and others – didn't. The others were wisest, Nellie."

He paused, gazing down at the distressful little heap of crumpled drapery and roughened gleaming hair.

"Much wisest. He was not a bad bird as birds go – but not a bird to break one's heart about, Nellie: what bird is?"

There was another sob. Philip looked despairingly at the ceiling and exclaimed under his breath:

"I wish to God she wouldn't cry!"

He took his book from the mantelpiece where he had laid it and moved toward the door. But he came back again, unable to leave her like that, and walked restlessly about the room, stopping every now and then to stand over her, and wonder what he could do.

Presently he took a feverish little hand in his, and pressed it as it lay limp there.

"The old crows stood by one another, Nellie," he said, and he thought he felt a sudden grip of his hand, coming and timidly in an instant going.

It seemed to comfort her to hold his hand. The sobs ceased, and presently she looked up and said, with a smile:

"I always used to cry at going back to school."

"Going back to work," said Philip, "is one of the few things in the world really worth crying about."

"Yes, isn't it?" she said, unblushingly availing herself of the shelter of his affected cynicism. She was afraid he might go on talking about crows, a topic which had been all very well, and even a little comforting, when she was hidden among the cushions, but would not do now.

"And London is so horrid in winter," she continued. "Are you going back soon?"

"Oh, I shall wait a little and look after Dale."

"Dale never tells one what is happening."

"I'll keep you posted, in case there's a revolution in Denborough, or anything of that sort."

A step was heard outside. With a sudden bound Nellie reached the piano, sat down, and began to play a lively air. Dale came in, looking suspiciously at the pair.

"I thought you'd gone to bed, Nellie."

"Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talking."

"About the affairs of the nation," said Philip.

"But I'm off now. Good-night, Dale."

Dale looked closely at her.

"What are your eyes red for? Have you been crying?"

"Crying, Dale? What nonsense! I've been roasting them before the fire, that's all; and if they are red, it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr. Hume?"

"Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment, as the reviewers say when they slate you," remarked Philip. "He might not have noticed your eyes at all."

"Inconceivable," said Dale politely, for he was feeling very kindly disposed to this pretty girl, who came when he wanted her, and went when – well, after a reasonably long visit.

"Good-night, Dale. I'm so sorry about – Mr. Roberts, you know."

Dale, having no further use for this grievance, was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten.

"Oh, you couldn't know he'd be such a brute. Good-night, Nellie."

The two men returned to the smoking room. Philip, looking for a piece of paper wherewith to light his pipe, happened to notice a little bundle of proof-sheets lying on the table.

"Ah, the spring bubbling again?" he asked.

Dale nodded.

"My dear fellow, how are the rest of us to get our masterpieces noticed? You are a monopolist."

"It's only a little volume."

"What's it about? May I look?"

"Oh, if you like," answered Dale carelessly; but he kept his eye on his friend.

Philip took up the first sheet, and read the title-page; he smiled, and, turning over, came to the dedication.

"You call it 'Amor Patriæ?'"

"Yes. Do you like the title?"

"Hum! There was no thought of pleasing me when it was christened, I presume. And you dedicate it – "

"Oh, is that there?"

"Yes, that's there – 'To her that shall be named hereafter.'"

Dale poked the fire before he answered.

"Yes," he said, "that's the dedication."

"So I see. Well, I hope she'll like them. It is an enviable privilege to confer immortality."

"I'll confer it on you, if you like."

"Yes, do. It will be less trouble than getting it for myself."

"Under the title of 'The Snarler.'"

Philip stood on the hearthrug and warmed himself.

"My dear Dale," he said, "I do not snarl. A wise author pleases each section of the public in turn. Hitherto you have pleased me and my kind, and Roberts and his kind, and Arthur Angell and his kind – who are, by the way, not worth pleasing, for they expect presentation copies. Now, in this new work, which is, I understand, your tribute to the nation which has the honor to bear you, you will please – " He paused.

"I always write to please myself," said Dale.

"Yourself," continued Philip, "this mysterious lady, and, I think we may add, the Mayor of Market Denborough."

"Go to the devil!" said the poet.

CHAPTER XII.
A Dedication – and a Desecration

A few weeks later the Mayor stood at his door, one bright morning in January, holding a parley with Alderman Johnstone.

"I dessay, now," said the Mayor, "that you aint been in the way of seein' the Squire lately?"

"I see him last when he signed my lease," answered the Alderman, with a grim smile, "and that's a month come to-morrow."

"I had a conversation with him yesterday, and after touchin' on the matter of that last pavin' contract, – he'd heard o' your son-in-law gettin' it, Johnstone, – he got talkin' about Mr. Bannister."

"Aye? did he?"

"And about his noo book. 'It's a blessin',' he says, 'to see a young man of such promise shakin' himself free of that pestilential trash.' He meant your opinions by that, Johnstone."

"Supposing 'e did, what then? I don't label my opinions to please the customers like as some do their physic."

The Mayor was not in a fighting mood; his mind was busy with speculations, and he ignored the challenge.

"Queer start Mr. Bannister showin' up at the church bazaar, eh? Spent a heap o' money, too. I met Mr. Hume, and asked him about it, and he said – "

"It wan't no business o' yours, didn't he?"

"Mr. Hume – he's a gentleman, Johnstone," remarked the Mayor in grave rebuke.

"Well, what did 'e say?"

"That where the carcass was, the eagles 'ud be gathered together."

Mr. Johnstone smiled a smile of pity for the Mayor's density.

"Well, what do you suppose he meant?" asked the Mayor in reply to the smile.

"Where the gells is, the lads is," said the Alderman, with a wink, as he passed on his way.

This most natural, reasonable, and charitable explanation of Dale's conduct in identifying himself with the Vicar's pastoral labors had, oddly enough, suggested itself to no one else, unless it might be to Captain Gerard Ripley. His presence had been hailed on the one side, and anathematized on the other, as an outward sign of an inward conversion, and his lavish expenditure had been set down to a repentant spirit rather than a desire to gratify any particular stall-holder. The Vicar had just read "Amor Patriæ," and he remarked to everyone he met that the transition from an appreciation of the national greatness to an adhesion to the national church was but a short step.

Unhappily, in a moment of absence, he chanced to say so to Colonel Smith, who was at the bazaar for the purpose of demonstrating his indifferent impartiality toward all religious sects.

"You might as well say," answered the Colonel in scorn, "that because a man stands by the regiment he's bound to be thick with the chaplain."

Captain Ripley alone, with the penetration born of jealousy, attributed Dale's presence simply and solely to the same motive as had produced his own, to wit, a desire to be where Miss Delane was. The Captain was a little sore; he had known Janet from childhood, they had exchanged many children's vows, and when he was sixteen and she thirteen she had accepted a Twelfth Night cake ring from him. The flirtation had always proceeded in its gentle, ambling course, and the Captain had returned on long leave with the idea that it was time to put the natural termination in the way of being reached. Janet disappointed him; she ridiculed his tender references to bygone days, characterizing what had passed as boy-and-girl nonsense, and perseveringly kept their intercourse on a dull level of friendliness. On the other hand, whatever might be the nature of her acquaintance with Dale Bannister, it was at least clear that it was marked by no such uneventful monotony. Sometimes she would hardly speak to him; at others she cared to speak to no one else. The Captain would have profited ill by the opportunities a residence in garrison towns offers if he had not recognized that these changeful relations were fraught with peril to his hopes.

At the bazaar, for example, he was so much moved by a long conversation between Janet and Dale, which took place over the handing of a cup of tea, that he unburdened himself to his friend Sir Harry Fulmer. Now Sir Harry was in a bad temper; he had his object in attending as the Captain had, and Colonel Smith had just told him that Tora was not coming.

"Who is the fellow?" demanded Captain Ripley.

"Writes poetry."

"I never heard of him."

"I dare say not. It's not much in your line, is it?"

"Well, he's a queer-looking beggar."

"Think so? Now I call him a good-looking chap."

"Why the deuce doesn't he get his hair cut?"

"Don't know. Perhaps Janet Delane likes it long."

"I hate that sort of fellow, Harry."

"He's not a bad chap."

"Does the Squire like him?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. How beastly hot this room is! I shall go."

"I say, Harry, I've only just come back, you know. Is there anything on?"

"Well, if you want to take a hand, I should cut in pretty sharp," said Sir Harry, elbowing his way to the door.

Captain Ripley, impatiently refusing to buy a negro doll which the Vicar's daughter pressed on his favorable notice, leaned against the wall and grimly regarded Dale Bannister.

The latter was just saying:

"Have you looked at the verses at all, Miss Delane?"

"I have read every one, over and over. They are splendid."

"Oh, I'm new to that sort of thing."

"Yes, but it's so – such a joy to me to see you doing what is really worthy of you."

"If there is any credit, it's yours."

"Now why do you say that? It isn't true, and it just spoils it."

"Spoils it?" said Dale, who thought girls liked compliments.

"Yes. If you had really only done it to please – an individual, it would be worth nothing. You couldn't help doing it. I knew you couldn't."

"At any rate, you must accept the responsibility of having put it into my head."

"Not even that, Mr. Bannister."

"Oh, but that's the meaning of the dedication."

No one is quite free from guile. Janet answered:

"The dedication is rather mysterious, Mr. Bannister."

"I meant it to be so to all the world."

"Oh, did you?"

"Except you."

Janet blushed and smiled.

"I wonder," pursued Dale, "if I shall ever be allowed to name that lady?"

"That will depend on whether she wishes it."

"Of course. Do you think she will – hereafter?"

"Won't you have another cup? It's only half a crown."

"Yes, two more, please. Do you think she will?"

"How thirsty you seem to be!"

"Will she?"

"Now, Mr. Bannister, I mustn't neglect all my customers. See, Mrs. Gilkison is selling nothing."

"But will she?"

"Certainly not – unless you go and buy something from Mrs. Gilkison."

Now whether Janet were really concerned for Mrs. Gilkison, or whether she had caught sight of Captain Ripley's lowering countenance, or whether she merely desired to avoid pledging herself to Dale, it is immaterial, and also impossible to say. Dale felt himself dismissed, with the consolation of perceiving that his dedication had not been unfavorably received in the quarter to which it was addressed.

Accordingly it was in a cheerful frame of mind that he set out for home, scattering most of his purchases among the children before he went.

He was in a kindly mood, and when he saw James Roberts coming up High Street, he did not, as he had once or twice lately, cross the road to avoid meeting him, but held on his path, determined to offer a friendly greeting.

When the Doctor came up, he stopped and took from his breast pocket the little green volume which contained Dale's latest poems. He held it up before the author's eyes.

"Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work. How do you like it?"

He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did not appear to be in a conciliatory temper.

"Are these things really yours?" he asked.

"Of course they are."

"This wretched jingo doggerel yours?"

Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not express the Doctor's views, but an immortal poet's works are not lightly to be called doggerel.

"What a narrow-minded beggar you are!" he exclaimed.

The Doctor answered nothing. Buttoning up his threadbare coat, so as to leave his arms free, with an effort he tore the leaves from their cover, rent them across, flung them on the road, and trod them into the mud. Then, without a word, he passed on his way, while Dale stood and stared at the dishonored wreck.

"He's mad – stark mad!" he declared at last. "How ill the poor chap looks, too!"

The Doctor hurried down the street, with a strange malicious smile on his face. Every now and then his hand sought his breast pocket again, and hugged a check for a hundred pounds which lay there. It was his last money in the world; when that was gone, his banking account was exhausted, and nothing remained but his wife's pittance – and nothing more was coming. Yet he had devoted that sum to a purpose, and now he stopped at Alderman Johnstone's door, and asked for the master of the house, still grimly smiling at the thought of what he was preparing for Dale Bannister, if only Johnstone would help him. Johnstone had a lease now, he was independent – if only he would help him!

The Alderman listened to the plan.

"It's a new trade for me," said he, with a grin.

"I find the stock – I have it ready. And – " He held up the check.

The Alderman's eyes glistened.

"They can't touch me," he said, "and I should like to 'ave a shy at the Squire. 'Ere's my 'and upon it."

A day or two afterward Dale heard that the sale of "Sluggards" was increasing by leaps and bounds. A single house had taken five hundred copies. "Amor Patriæ" had evidently given a fresh impetus to the earlier work, in spite of the remarkable difference of tone which existed between them.

"It shows," said Dale complacently to Philip Hume, "that most people are not such intolerant idiots as that fellow Roberts."

But what it really did show will appear in due season. Dale did not know; nor did Philip, for he said, with a fine sneer:

"It shows that immorality doesn't matter if it's combined with sound political principles, old man."

CHAPTER XIII.
The Responsibilities of Genius

Dr. Spink sat in his comfortable dining room with his after-dinner glass of wine before him. The snow was falling and the rain beating against the windows, but the Doctor had finished his work, and feared only that some sudden call would compel him to face the fury of the weather again. A few months back he would have greeted any summons, however unreasonable the hour, and thought a new patient well bought at the price of a spoiled evening. But of late the world had smiled upon him, the hill which had looked so steep was proving easy to climb, and he was already considering whether he should not take a partner, to relieve him of the more irksome parts of his duty. He pulled his neatly trimmed whisker and caressed his smooth-shaven chin, as he reflected how the folly of that mad fellow, Roberts, had turned to his advantage. No man could say that he had deviated an inch from professional propriety, or pressed his advantage the least unfairly. He had merely persevered on the lines he laid down for himself on his first arrival. The success, which astonished even himself, had come to him, partly no doubt, because merit must make its way, but mainly because his rival had willfully flung away his chances, preferring – and to Dr. Spink it seemed a preference almost insane – to speak his mind, whatever it might be, rather than, like a wise man, hold his tongue and fill his pockets.

So Roberts had willed, and hence the Vicarage, the Grange, and many other houses now knew his footstep no more, and Spink filled his place. As he pondered on this, Dr. Spink spared a pang of pity for his beaten competitor, wondering what in the world the man meant to live upon.

The door bell rang. He heard it with a sigh – the half-pleased, half-weary, resigned sigh that a man utters when fortune gives him no rest in getting gain. A moment later he was on his way to the surgery to see a lady who would not send in her name or business.

He recognized Ethel Roberts with surprise, when she raised her veil. They had known one another to bow to, but he could not imagine what brought her to his surgery.

"Mrs. Roberts! Is there anything – "

"Oh, Dr. Spink, you must forgive me for coming. I am in great trouble, and I thought you might help me."

"Pray sit down. Is anyone ill – your little boy?"

"No, he's not ill. It's – it's about my husband."

"I hope Mr. Roberts is not ill?"

"I don't know," she said nervously. "That's what I want to ask you. Have you seen him lately?"

"No, not very; I passed him in the street the other day."

"He's gone to London, suddenly, I don't know why. Oh, he's been so strange lately!"

"I thought he looked worried. Tell me about it," said Dr. Spink, moved now with genuine pity for the pale haggard face before him.

"Ever since – but you mustn't tell I came to you – or spoke to anybody, I mean – will you?"

He reassured her, and she continued:

"Ever since his quarrel with Mr. Bannister – you know about it? – there is something the matter with him. He is moody, and absent-minded, and – and hasty, and he settles to nothing. And now he is gone off like this."

"Come, Mrs. Roberts, you must compose yourself. I suppose he has let these politics worry him."

"He seems to care nothing for – for his home or the baby, you know; he does nothing but read, or wander up and down the room."

"It sounds as if he wanted a rest and a change. You say he has gone away?"

"Yes; but on business, I think."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much, unless he calls me in and lets me have a look at him."

"He'll never do that!" she exclaimed, before she could stop herself.

Dr. Spink took no notice of her outburst.

"If he comes back no better, send me a line, Mrs. Roberts, and we'll see. And mind you let me know if you or the baby want any advice."

"You're very kind, Dr. Spink. I – I'm sorry James is so – "

"Oh, that's a symptom. If he gets right, he won't be like that. Your jacket's too thin for such a night. Let me send you home in the brougham."

Ethel refused the offer, and started on her return, leaving Dr. Spink shaking a thoughtful head in the surgery doorway.

"It really looks," he said, "as if he was a bit queer. But what can I do? Poor little woman!"

And, not being able to do anything, he went back and finished his glass of port. Then, for his dinner had been postponed till late by business, and it was half-past ten, he went to bed.

Ethel beat her way down the High Street against the wind and snow, shutting her eyes in face of the blinding shower, and pushing on with all her speed to rejoin her baby, whom she had left alone. When, wet and weary, she reached her door, to her surprise she saw a man waiting there. For a moment she joyously thought it was her husband, but as the man came forward to meet her, she recognized Philip Hume.

"Out on such a night, Mrs. Roberts!"

She murmured an excuse, and he went on:

"Is the Doctor in? I came to look him up."

"No, he's away in London, Mr. Hume."

"In London? What for?"

"I don't know."

"May I come in for a moment?" asked Philip, who had been looking at her closely.

"If you like," she answered in some surprise. "I'm afraid there's no fire."

Philip had followed her in and seen the grate in the sitting room with no fire lighted.

"No fire?" he exclaimed.

"There is one in my room where baby is," she explained.

"There ought to be one here too," said he. "You're looking ill."

"Oh, I'm not ill, Mr. Hume – I'm not indeed."

Philip had come on an errand. There are uses even in gossips, and he had had a talk with his friend the Mayor that day.

"Where are the coals?" he asked.

"There are some in the scuttle," she said.

He looked and found a few small pieces. The fire was laid with a few more. Philip lit them and threw on all the rest. Then he went to the door, and shouted:

"Wilson!"

The small shrewd-faced man who waited on Dale Bannister appeared. He was pushing a wheelbarrow before him.

"Wheel it into the passage," said Philip; "and then go. And, mind, not a word!"

Wilson looked insulted.

"I don't talk, sir," said he.

Philip returned to the room.

"Mrs. Roberts," he said, "listen to me. I am a friend of your husband's. Will you let me help you?"

"Indeed, I need no help."

"I know you are frozen," he went on; "and – where is the servant?"

"She has left. I – I haven't got another yet," she faltered.

"In the passage," Philip went on, "there is a wheelbarrow. It holds coals, food, and drink. It's for you."

She started up.

"I can't – indeed I can't! Jim wouldn't like it."

"Jim be hanged! I'll settle with him. You're to take them. Do you hear?"

She did not answer. He walked up to her and put a little canvas bag in her hands.

"There's money. No, take it. I shall keep an account."

"I really don't need it."

"You do – you know you do. How much money has he left you?"

She laid her hand on his arm.

"He's not himself, he isn't indeed, Mr. Hume, or he wouldn't – "

"No, of course he isn't. So I do what he would, if he were himself. You were going to starve."

"He will be angry."

"Then don't tell him. He'll never notice. Now, will he?"

"He notices nothing now," she said.

"And you'll take them? Come, think of what's-his-name – the baby, you know."

"You're too kind to me."

"Nonsense! Of course we look after you, Mrs. Roberts."

"Mr. Hume, do you think – what do you think is the matter with Jim?"

"Oh, I think he's an old fool, Mrs. Roberts, and you may tell him so from me. No, no, he'll be all right in a week or two. Meanwhile, we're going to make you and Tommy – oh, Johnny, is it? – comfortable."

He did not leave her till she had consented to accept all he offered; then he went back to Littlehill.

"I think, Dale," he said, "Roberts must be mad. He left his wife and child starving."

"Did she take the things?"

"Yes; I made her."

"That's all right. What a strange beggar he is! He can't be quite right in his head."

"Fancy that poor little woman left like that!"

"Horrible!" said Dale, with a shudder. "At any rate we can prevent that. I'm so glad you thought of it."

"Old Hedger told me they had ordered nothing for three days."

"How the deuce does Hedger know everything?"

"It's lucky he knew this, isn't it?"

"By Jove, it is! Because, you know, Phil, I feel a kind of responsibility."

"Nonsense, Dale! Not really?"

"Oh, you needn't laugh. Of course I couldn't know the man was a sort of lunatic. One doesn't write for lunatics."

"Perhaps they ought to be considered, being so numerous."

"However, it's all right now. Awfully obliged to you, Phil."

"I wonder if he'll come back."

"Roberts? Why shouldn't he?"

"I don't know, but he's quite capable of just cutting the whole concern."

"I think he's capable of anything."

"Except appreciating 'Amor Patriæ,' eh?"

Dale, having got the Roberts family off his mind, drifted to another topic.

"I say, Phil, old chap, will you stop playing the fool for once, and give me your advice?"

"What about?" asked Philip, throwing himself into an armchair.

"What," said Dale gravely, filling his pipe, "do you think about getting married?"

"Are you thinking of it?"

"Discuss marriage in the abstract."

"It is a position of greater responsibility and less freedom."

"Yes, I know that. But a lot depends on the girl, doesn't it?"

"I expect so."

"I say, Phil, what do you think of Ripley?"

"He seemed a decent enough fellow."

"Do you think – I mean, do you call him an attractive fellow?"

"Oh, uncommonly!"

"Really?"

"Well, why not?"

Dale fidgeted in his chair, and relit the pipe, which had gone out. He was much too perturbed to give to the filling of it the attention that operation needs.

"I suppose he'll be rich, and a swell, and all that," he went on.

"No doubt – but not a Victorian poet."

"Don't be a fool!"

"I meant it kindly. Some girls like poets."

"They were awfully kind about 'Amor Patriæ' at the Grange to-night."

"Oh, you've been there?"

"You know I have. Ripley was there. I don't think I care much about him, Phil."

"Don't you? Does he like you?"

Dale laughed as he rose to go to bed.

"Not much, I think," said he.

Philip also, being left companionless, got up and knocked out his pipe. Then he stood looking into the dying embers for a minute or two, and thinking, as he warmed his hands with the last of the heat. "Poor little Nellie!" he said. After a pause, he said it again; and once again after that. But then, as saying it was no use at all, he sighed and went to bed.