themselves! A stickler for the powers plenipotentiary of the Creator might have taken exception to this observation, but we know what the good, kind soul meant and she liked her little aphorism so well that she repeated it to everyone of her acquain

tance.

Lady Matilda paused for an instant before speaking. Then she said gently:

'Don't think me impertinent, but surely you have some relations?"

Esther shook her head.

My father's cousins are furious with him; I couldn't stand their pity or their patronage.'

'And your mother's people, dear?'

'My mother's people? I suppose my mother had people. Father never spoke of her or them.'

'How very, very odd!'

'So, you see, I have nobody to consider but myself. And I might do well on the stage, don't you think so?'

'You are pretty, clever, and you have a delightful voice.'

'I know Henry FitzRoy, the actor-manager.'

Lady Matilda nodded.

'I'm sure he'll help.

Don't forget to mention my name. I

introduced him to the dear Prince, and he was so grateful.'

Then you really think well of my little plan?'

Lady Matilda blinked. Then she took Esther's hand in hers and patted it maternally. Her manner was perfection.

'I do I do. If a girl can earn a living on the stage or anywhere

An inaudible sigh of relief parted Lady Matilda's lips. Perhaps, after all, she had done Harry an injustice.

'Knowing Harry,' she began, softly, knowing the tenderness of his heart, and his temperament, so like his father's, I was terrified lest he should propose something rash.'

'What do you mean?'

Lady Matilda permitted the shadow of a frown to flit across her placid forehead. Esther's question displayed a certain lack of breeding and tact. Nothing is so exasperating as to be compelled to use a blunderbuss when you are master of a rapier.

'He is very chivalrous, my dear.'

'Is he?' Esther considered this seriously.

'You must know what he is. He has the nice old-fashioned ideas about women.'

'He has never mentioned them to me.'

'How very odd! Oh, yes, Harry believes that women must be protected and cherished, treated as delicate porcelain, and

er

'Kept under lock and key.'

'Exactly.'

'Is that being chivalrous?'

Again Lady Matilda frowned. Esther was making things difficult to one who prided herself upon making things easy. However, she answered mildly: ' I'm not very good at expressing myself, but you know what I mean.'

'I think I know what you mean,' said Esther, but I should like to be sure. You have been terrified lest Harry should ask me to marry him.'

us.

'My dear!'

'Lady Matilda, only the plainest speaking is possible between Harry, perhaps, is too chivalrous to ask me to share comparative poverty with him. Let us leave it at that, if it pleases you. But, if he had spoken, if he had been '--she paused and brought out the word 'rash' with a derisive little smile-'I should have said "No." If I had wanted his love more than anything else in the world, I should have said "No." Have I made myself plain ?

You are a girl of spirit.'

'Don't flatter me! I'm a girl of temperament-the creature of impulse. I will be absolutely frank with you. There was one moment, only one, when I might have taken Harry if he had asked me. That was the first day, when I did not know how bad things were. Will you promise me that you will never let Harry know this?'

'My poor child, of course.'

'I'm not so poor as you imagine. I mean to make my way. I am not afraid of work, but I should resent being kept under lock and key.'

'We shall all stand by you, dear.'

And my

'No; I shall drop out. Pity hurts horribly. great weakness is that I'm afraid of pain. I hardly know

what pain is. I have never been uncomfortable; I have never been lectured, or slighted. Bad times are coming, but I'm not afraid-yet.'

Lady Matilda kissed her with genuine affection.

Of all the girls I have known,' she said regretfully, 'you are the nicest and the pluckiest.'

'Plucky?' said Esther, with a twist of her lip. Well, that remains to be seen.'

When Lady Matilda went away, Esther returned to her sittingroom, once the school-room, and the only room in the vast mansion which reflected personality. In a corner stood a doll's house gorgeously furnished. Esther had played with dolls till she was fourteen, partly because she had an imagination, partly because she was loyal to things and persons who were a source of entertainment to her. The dolls lay in state in a mahogany tallboy, and often Esther would open the drawers and ask her old favourites how they fared. She was whimsically sensible that she had not treated some of them with forbearance. She had smacked an ear off a beautiful creature merely because she simpered and looked silly. Another sparkler had been spanked, after trial by jury, because it was certain that she scorned the Gollywog. A lovely lady from Paris wore sackcloth. Her magnificent trousseau had been given to an English doll who was ugly and, supposedly, virtuous. No greater punishment can be inflicted upon a gay Parisienne.

Take away the doll's house and the mahogany tallboy, and the room became, perhaps, obtrusively pretty. Esther admitted that she placed too high a value upon what pleased the eye. She adored flowers, and delicate fabrics, softly tinted porcelain, and books bound in white vellum, fancifully tooled. Near the fireplace a divan was piled high with eiderdown cushions.

Upon this divan Esther reclined, thinking of Lady Matilda, of Harry, and of Dorothea. Dorothea had been a friend. Her marriage justified the use of the past tense. Esther knew George, and liked him, but he was a man without enthusiasm, cold as a fish, unlovable. Why had Dorothea married him? To sip coffee in a hall lined with blue sodolite? To wear bigger diamonds than other women? To make a splash? To reply affirmatively to any of those questions exhibited ignorance of Dorothea. She was a Gallio in regard to material things. Perhaps she had fled from her mother. Esther recalled an Eastern proverb: As the sands of

the desert are to the weary traveller, so is overmuch speech to him who loveth silence.' George had the gift of silence. He was like one of the strong, dumb men in Henry Seton Merriman's novels. To his silence the distracted Dorothea may have sped as to an oasis.

When the engagement was announced, Esther looked forward to heart to heart talks. She admired Dorothea enormously. Lady Matilda and Harry always spoke of her in superlatives. But for that matter, everybody knew that mother and son were a mutual admiration company with large assets and irreducible liabilities. Lady Matilda never looked so charming as when she was exhibiting photographs of her children to the stranger within her gates. This is my boy,' she would say, 'the dearest fellow. I think you know my girl. Yes, as you say, very distinguished, and the most devoted daughter. What those darling children have been to me

!'

Nothing is so tiresome as a mystery, so we will hasten to explain why there were no heart to heart talks between Dorothea and Esther. Dorothea did appreciate silence; and she found out before she was ten years old that her mother, constitutionally and temperamentally, was unable to keep a secret. Harry, also, chattered indiscreetly. Accordingly, early in life, Dorothea learned to hold her tongue. Because of this, friends confided in her, notably Esther, and carried away by the beatitude of giving confidence, few paused to observe that they were receiving nothing in return. Then Dorothea fell in love with a man who was flirting with her. He married somebody else; Dorothea, out of pique, said 'Yes' to the faithful George, who happened to propose upon the evening of the day when the engagement of the other man was announced. Because she could not marry the man she wanted, she took the man who wanted her.

Esther, ingenuous and guileless, though not ignorant, could not understand what had happened. Dorotheɛ's reserve, so solid and indestructible, made Esther's outpourings appear thin and flimsy. She thinks me a gusher,' Esther muttered to herself. And if she had known it, Dorothea was dying to speak with entire frankness and couldn't!

Habit had made her tongue-tied.

Alone in her room, Esther underwent a reaction. She had confronted Lady Matilda with a derisive smile, but she saw herself through tears-tears which she despised, and yet recognised as the

inevitable successor of smiles. She believed in the rhythm of life. She had had her good times, and the bad times were at handlean years of struggle and renunciation.

Three cups of tea shed a rosier light upon the future. Her eyes were clear and bright when the solemn butler, already under notice to leave, announced that Mr. Rye was in the drawing-room. Esther had not seen Harry for three days, but she had written to announce her definite intention of going on the stage.

She arranged her hair, which had a tinge of red in it, before she went downstairs. Examining herself in the glass, she could not deny that she was nice-looking, although at times her face exasperated her, for she happened to be devoid of vanity. Her complexion, pale but clear, enhanced the value of her big hazel eyes and red mouth. She found great fault with her mouth. It had an annoying droop to it. As a child she could remember overhearing whispers: What a sad little darling!' But she was not sad, and never had been sad. Fortunately her nose had a tiny tilt to it. 'My nose despises my mouth,' Esther would say. Certainly the nose indicated a saucy defiance. The brow was quite charming, low and wide, and the hair waved from it naturally. Obstinacy perched itself upon her chin. Judging by appearances you would declare: Here is a creature of impulse, who has never come in contact with anything sordid and mean; she has never entertained an unbeautiful thought; she has capacity for enjoyment, but the delicacy of the nostril indicates equal sensibility to pain.' Men agreed that she possessed a sense of humour, and could see a joke against herself. Perhaps the greatest charm of the face was its immaturity and youthfulness. It might become really beautiful; it might, as easily, degenerate into chocolate-box prettiness.

Harry, usually of a sanguine complexion, looked rather pallid. Our preux chevalier had kept vigils, as befitted one about to embark upon a notable enterprise, exacting sacrifice and self-denial. Esther shook hands.

'I got your letter,' said Harry.

She divined that he disapproved of the stage.

'Letters are not like foolish young women, they seldom go astray.'

This was flippant; and Harry frowned. After much thought and consultation with his friend, he had nerved himself for the great plunge. At such a moment, it was intolerable that Esther should make silly remarks.

VOL. XXVI.-NO. 151, N.S.

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