“That’s like you women,” he answered with a smile. “You pretend to be superior; and then you copy us.” “You left a glove behind you, the first day you ever came to our house,” Mary explained. “And I kept it.”!

“I like the houses, too,” he said. “There’s a character about them. You don’t often find such fine drawing-rooms in London.” “Ever spent a day at the Home for Destitute Gentlewomen at East Sheen?” demanded Madge.

It was vexing his having moved round the corner, into North Street. Why couldn’t the silly woman have been content where she was. Living under one roof, they could have seen one another as often as was needful without attracting attention. Now, she supposed, she would have to be more than ever the bosom friend of Mrs. Phillips—spend hours amid that hideous furniture, surrounded by those bilious wallpapers. Of course he could not come to her. She hoped he would appreciate the sacrifice she would be making for him. Fortunately Mrs. Phillips would give no trouble. She would not even understand. She could help him. Without her, he would fail. The woman herself saw that, and wished it. Why should she hesitate? It was not as if she had only herself to consider. The fate—the happiness of millions was at stake. He looked to her for aid—for guidance. It must have been intended. All roads had led to it. Her going to the house. She remembered now, it was the first door at which she had knocked. Her footsteps had surely been directed. Her meeting with Mrs. Phillips in Madge’s rooms; and that invitation to dinner, coinciding with that crisis in his life. It was she who had persuaded him to accept. But for her he would have doubted, wavered, let his opportunities slip by. He had confessed it to her. He laughed. “And this new journal of his?” he asked. “It’s got to be published in London, hasn’t it?”