destination. He wasn't sure of finding Turquand in at this hour. He opened the door with his latchkey, and, dragging his portmanteaus into the passage, ran upstairs. The journalist, in his shirt-sleeves, was reading an evening paper, with his slippered feet crossed on the window-sill.

"Hallo!" he said; "you've got back?"

"Yes," said Humphrey. "How the jam smells!"

"It's raspberry to-day. I've come to the conclusion that the raspberry's the most penetrating. How are you?"

"Dry, and hungry too. Is there anything to drink in the place?"

"There's a very fine brand of water on the landing, and there's the remainder of a roll, extra sec, in the cupboard, I believe; I finished the whisky last night. We can go and have some dinner at the Suisse. Madame is désolée; she's asked after you most tenderly."

"Good old madame! And her moustache?"

"More luxuriant."

There was a pause, in which Humphrey considered how best to impart his tidings. The other shifted his feet, and contemplated the smoke-dried wall—the only view attainable from the window. Kent stared at him. It was displayed to him clearly for the first time that his marriage would mean severance from Turquand and the Restaurant Suisse and all that had been his life hitherto, and that Turquand might feel it more sorely than he expressed. He was sorry for Turquand. He lounged over to the mantelpiece and dipped his hand in the familiar tobacco-jar, and filled a pipe before he spoke.

"Well," he said, with an elaborate effort to sound careless, "I suppose you'll hardly be astonished, old chap—I'm engaged."

CHAPTER V

Turquand did not answer immediately.

"No," he said at last; "I'm not astonished. Nothing could astonish me, excepting good news. When is the event to take place?"

"That's not settled. Soon.... We shall always be pals, Turk?"

"I'll come and see you sometimes—oh yes. Father consented?"

"Things are quite smooth all round."

"H'mph!"

He looked hard at the wall and pulled his beard.

"You said it would happen, didn't you? I didn't see a glimmer of a possibility myself."

"Love's blind, you know."

"You said, too, it—er—it wouldn't be altogether a wise step. You'll change your mind about that one day, Turk."

"Hope so," said Turquand. "Can't to-night."

"You still believe I'm making a mistake?"

"What need is there to discuss it now?"

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Why should we? Why argue with a man whether the ice will bear after he has made a hole in it?"

"We shan't be extravagant, and I shall work like blazes. I've a plot simmering already."

"Happy ending this time?"

"I don't quite see it, to be consistent—no."

"You must manage it. They like happy endings, consistent or not."

"Damn it, I mean to be true! I won't sell my birthright for a third edition! I shall work like blazes, and we shall live quite quietly somewhere in a little house——"

"That's impossible," said Turquand. "You may live in a little house, or you may live quietly, but you can't do both things at the same time."

"In the suburbs—in Streatham, probably. Her people live in Streatham, and of course she would like to be near them."

"And you will have a general servant, eh, with large and fiery hands—like Cornelia downstairs? Only she'll look worse than Cornelia, because your wife will dress her up in muslins and streamers, and try to disguise the generality. If you work in the front of your pretty little house, your nervous system 'll be shattered by the shrieks of your neighbours' children swinging on the gates—forty-pound-a-year houses in the suburbs are infested with children; nothing seems to exterminate them, and the inevitable gates groan like souls in hell—and if you choose the back, you'll be assisted by the arrival of the joint, and the vegetables, and the slap of the milk-cans, and Cornelia the Second's altercations with the errand-boys. A general servant with a tin pail alone is warranted to make herself heard for eleven hundred and sixty yards."

"Life hasn't made an optimist of you," observed Kent, less cheerfully, "that you clack about 'happy endings'!"

"The optimist is like the poet—he's born, he isn't made. Speaking of life, I suppose you'll assure yours when you marry?"

"Yes," said Kent meditatively; "yes, that's a good idea. I shall.... But your suggestions are none of them too exhilarating," he added; "let's go to dinner!"

The sub-editor put on his jacket and sought his boots.

"I'm ready," he announced. "By the way, I never thought to inquire: Mrs. Walford hasn't a large family, has she?"

"A son as well, that's all. Why?"

"I congratulate you," said Turquand; it was the first time the word had passed his lips. "It's a truism to say that a man should never marry; anybody; but if he must blunder with someone, let him choose an only child! Marrying into a large family's more expensive still. His wife has for ever got a sister having a wedding, or a christening, or a birthday and wanting a present; or a brother asking for a loan, or dying and plunging her into costly crape. Yes, I congratulate you."

Humphrey expressed no thanks, and he determined to avoid the subject of his engagement as much as possible in their conversations hence-forward.

He was due at The Hawthorns the following afternoon at five o'clock, and his impatience to see the girl again was intensified by the knowledge that he was about to see her in her home. The day was tedious. In the morning it was showery, and he was chagrined to think that he was doomed to enter the drawing-room in muddy shoes; but after lunch the sky cleared, and when he reached Victoria the pavements were dry. The train started late, and travelled slowly; but he heard a porter bawling "Stretta Mill!" on the welcome platform at last, and, making the station's acquaintance with affectionate eyes, he hastened up the steps, and in the direction of the house.

He was prepossessed by its exterior, and his anticipations were confirmed on entering the hall.

Mrs. Walford was in the garden, he was told, and the parlourmaid led him there. It was an extremely charming garden. It was well designed, and it had a cedar and a tennis-court, which was pleasant to look at, though tennis was not an accomplishment that his life had furnished opportunities for acquiring; and it contained a tea-table under the cedar's boughs, and Cynthia in a basket-chair and a ravishing frock.

He was welcomed with effusion, and he presented his chocolates. Mr. Walford, already returned from town, was quite parental in his greeting. Tea was very nice and English in the cedar's shade and Cynthia's presence. It was very nice, too, to be made so much of in the circumstances. Really they were very delightful people!

The son was in Germany, he learnt.

"Or we could have given you a treat, my boy, if you are fond of music!" exclaimed the stock-jobber. "You will hear a voice when he comes back. That's luck for a fellow, to be born with an organ like Cæsar's! He'll be making five hundred a week in twelve months. I tell you it's wonderful!"

"'Five hundred a week'?" echoed Mrs. Walford.

"He'll be making more than five hundred a week, I hope, before long! They get two or three hundred a night—not voices as fine as Cæsar's—and won't go on the stage till they have had their money, either. You talk such nonsense, Sam ... absurd!"

"I said 'in twelve months,'" murmured her husband deprecatingly. "I said in 'twelve months,' my dear." He turned to Kent, and added confidentially, "There isn't a bass in existence to compare with him. You'll say so when you hear. Ah, let me introduce you to another member of the family—my wife's sister."

Kent saw that they had been joined by a spare little woman with a thin, pursed mouth and a nose slightly pink. She was evidently a maiden lady,