of the sort; you always jump to such extraordinary conclusions," she said. "He is a perfect gentleman and proposed for her beautifully. After all, there aren't many young men who've got so much as a thousand pounds in ready money."

"But he isn't making anything, you tell me," objected Mr. Walford; "they'll eat up a thousand pounds before they know where they are.... He wouldn't expect anything with her, I suppose?"

She shook her head violently.

"No earthly occasion. Oh dear no!"

"Let me go and see Cynthia," he said again. "It's a funny thing a girl like that hasn't ever had a good offer—upon my soul it is!"

"You ask home such twopenny-halfpenny men," retorted his wife. "She is in her room; I'll let her know you're here."

Cynthia was "cut up." She liked Humphrey Kent very much—and everything is relative: she felt herself to be a Juliet. She considered it very unkind of mamma to oppose their marriage, and said as much to her father, with tears on her lashes and pathetic little sobs. Sam Walford was sorry for her; his affection for his children was his best attribute. He said "Damn it!" several times more. And then he patted her on the cheek, and told her not to cry, and went out on the Plage to commune with tobacco.

After his cigar, he sought a coiffeur—there is a very excellent one in Dieppe; and he was shaved, an operation that freshened him extremely; and he had his thin hair anointed with various liquids of agreeable fragrance and most attractive hues, and submitted his moustache to the curling-irons. The French barber will play with one for hours, and when Mr. Walford had acquired a carnation for his buttonhole, and sipped a vermouth over the pages of Gil Blas it was time to think of returning to the hotel. A pretty woman, who had looked so demure in approaching that the impropriety was a sensation, lifted her eyes to him and smiled as she passed. He momentarily hesitated, but remembered that it was near the dinner-hour, and that he was a father with a daughter's love-affair upon his hands. But he re-entered the hotel in a good humour.

Cynthia went to bed radiantly happy that night, and kissed a bundle of lilies that had cost fifty francs, for the Capulets had relented.

The two men had had a long conversation on the terrace over their coffee, and the senior, who was favourably impressed, had ended by being jovial and calling Kent "my boy," and smacking him on the shoulder.

Mrs. Walford was not displeased by the decision, since it could never be said that she had advocated it. "My daughter's fiancé, Mr. Kent, the novelist, you know," sounded very well, and she foresaw herself expatiating on his importance, and determined what his income should be in her confidences to intimate friends. Really, if the house were nice, he might be making anything she liked—who could dispute her assertions?

The Capulets had relented, and the sun shone—especially in Paris, where Kent went in haste to get the engagement-ring; the thirsty trees were shuddering in the glare, and the asphalt steamed. But to wait had been impossible, though the stay at Dieppe was drawing to a close and they would all be back in London soon. It seemed to him that it would be as the signing of the agreement when Cynthia put her finger through his ring; and he was resolved that it should be a better one than any of those that her mother wore with such complacence. Poor devil of an author though he was, her acquaintances shouldn't see that Cynthia was marrying badly by the very emblem of his devotion!

In the rue de la Paix he spent an hour scrutinising windows before he permitted himself to enter a shop. He chose finally a pearl and diamonds—one big white pearl, and a diamond flashing on either side of it. It was in a pale blue velvet case, lined with white satin. He was satisfied with his purchase, and so was the salesman.

Cynthia's flush of delight as he disclosed it repaid him superabundantly, and when the girl proudly displayed it to them, he was gratified to observe her parents' surprise. The cries of admiration into which Mrs. Walford broke were fervent, and instantaneously she decided to say that he was making three thousand a year.

His days were now delicious to Kent. A magic haze enwrapped their stereotyped incidents, so that the terrace of the Casino, the veranda of the hotel, Nature, and the polyglot lounging crowd itself, were all beatified. They were as familiar things viewed in a charming dream— "the pleasant fields traversed so oft," which were still more pleasant as they appeared to the sleeping soldier. A tenderness overflowing from his own emotions was imparted to the scenes, and he found it almost impossible to realise sometimes that the goddess beside him, who had been so unapproachable a month ago, was actually to belong to him. It dazzled him; it seemed incredible.

He had once sat down in the salon de lecture with the intention of informing Turquand of his joy; but the knowledge that the news entailed a defence, if he didn't wish to write formally, had resulted in his writing nothing. Delicacy demanded that he should excuse his action by word of mouth if excuses were required at all. To do such a thing in permanent pen-strokes looked to him profanation of an angel and an insult to the bounty of God.

Mr. Walford was not able to remain at Dieppe till the day fixed for the others' return; nor, he said genially, was there any occasion for him to put himself out now that he had a prospective son-in-law to take his place. Humphrey was well content. He understood that the elder lady was a bad sailor and clung obstinately to the saloon, and he anticipated several golden hours to which the paternal presence would have proved alloy.

He was not disappointed. Sustained by Heidsieck and the stewardess, Mrs. Walford stayed below, as usual, and he tasted the responsibility of having the girl in his charge. He let the flavour dissolve on his palate slowly. It was as if they were already on the honeymoon, he thought, as they paced the deck together, or he made her comfortable in a chair and brought her strawberries; he watched her eat them with amused interest, vaguely conscious that he found it wonderful to see her mouth unclose and a delicate forefinger and thumb grow pinky.

"You are sure you have the address right?" she asked. "Humphrey, fancy if you lost it and could never find us again after we said good-bye to-day! Wouldn't it be awful?"

"Awful!"

"Such a thing might happen," she declared. "You try and try your hardest to remember where we told you we lived, but you can't. It is terrible! You go mad——"

"Or to a post-office," he said.

She laughed gaily.

"How could you write to me when you'd forgotten the address? You foolish fellow! There, I was brighter than you that time."

He felt it would be prolix to explain that he was thinking of a directory, and not of stamps.

"Come, after that, I must really hear if you've learnt your lesson! What is it? Quick!"

"You live in a house called The Hawthorns," he said—"one of the houses. You would have called it The Cedars, only that was the name of the house next door. I take the train to Streatham Hill—I must be very particular to say 'Hill,' or catastrophes will happen. To begin with, I shall lose an hour of your society——"

"And dinner—dinner will certainly be over!"

"Dinner will certainly be over. When I come out, I turn to the right, pass the estate agent's, take the first to the left, and recollect that I'm looking for a bow-window and a white balcony, and a fence that makes it impossible to see them. Do I know it?"

"Not 'impossible.' But—yes, I'll trust you."

He parted from the women at Victoria, and, getting into a hansom, gave himself up to reflection. The rooms that he shared with Turquand were in the convenient, if unfashionable, neighbourhood of Soho, and an all-pervading odour of jam reminded him presently that he was nearing his