adventure of Ulalumai; or, the Tawney River. The
Great Circulator took five hundred copies.

He was not married, and never would marry;
but liked to scoff and gird at women with politeness;
sitting at their feet (on these low chairs)
telling, too, of his rough sports—a sort of Othello
in outline. To hear these matters they did
seriously incline. There had been a lady whom
he called Virginia Grammont, whom he loved to
entertain in this fashion, on whose low chair he
sat, whom he taught, scolded, carped at,
complimented, sneered at, but regarded in some sort
as his own special property. That hour of ten
every second day, he took her as regularly as he
would his cigar, or dinner. She was a sort of
book, more a pamphlet he would have said, for
him. He required her.

She of course was of the gay young
condottieri, who scour the ball-rooms. Here making
war for "an idea" does not obtain, and could
not obtain. For, speaking metaphorically, how
are horses and forage, and caparisons and
accoutrements, and subsistence, to be found on such
terms? Suddenly one day she became a Mrs.
Massinger. Mr. Romaine was thrust with a
shock from the low chair.

He was in a fury. He raged as if some
personal injury had been done to him. He would
have liked to have gone out with a rifle and shot
Massinger like a panther. But Mr. and Mrs.
Massinger were away, going to spend the winter
at Rome. He now discovered that he loved this
girl. The gaunt face glowed with colour, the man,
who had seen savage women until he had began
to think the whole sex pure cattle, was in sore
distress.

He had begun to know Pauline about this
time. She laughed openly at his troubles:
fanciful, she called them. He did not much care
how she received them; all he wanted was some
one to make company while he talked, and sometimes
"honed" himself, and more often sprang
from the low chair, and tramped heavily up and
down with long strides on her carpet. She bore
with him patiently, and often without speaking,
sometimes throwing on fuel, as it were a log
of wood, quietly.

"This is all your own pride, which has been
touched," she would say. On this he would stop
his striding, pulling himself up, as if he were a
strong horse, and would begin champing his bit
impatiently, and pawing the carpet, fixing on
her a strange half fierce look from his bright
eyes. Then he launched into harangues, half
invective and half expostulation. This was one
pattern of many such scenes. It fell in with his
daily life, and about every second or third afternoon
a huge rough poncho of his was lying on the
hall table, and the heavy hollow beat of his stride
was heard on the floor overhead.

The house in Alfred-place had a balcony, which
was a perfect garden. From the top of the
street was seen what looked like a flower-bed in
the air—luxuriant greenery, hanging and clustering,
with large bright patch of rich red, so that
strangers and passers-by often turned down the
street to get a nearer view. A yet brighter patch
of colour attracted them when the face of the
mistress was seen bent down over her flowers.
Not that she fancied gardening, but as she once
said in her odd way to Lord Putnenham, who
had protested that his gardener should send up a
box of rare cuttings and roots from Putnenham:
"She liked flowers, because they were sure to
die."

Thus was she, one evening about four o'clock,
bent down over the balcony, pulling away a
living leaf as often as a dead one. The little
street was deserted, never at any time having
much traffic. Two figures had walked past the
top—two girls as they seemed—who were caught
by the bright flash in the balcony, the gorgeous
reds—and came down slowly to see better. As
they came under, they looked up with women's
delight in flowers, and Miss Manuel, who did
not care to look at any faces, could not help
seeing the upturned ones through the green
leaves.

In a second she had flown back into her room,
and rang the bell. "Ask that lady to come in,"
she said to her servant. "Bring her in; and, if
she refuses, call to me." The servant bowed, and
Pauline, shooting a glance round her room, said
aloud, "Ah! they are come at last, and it is
full time to begin."

It was a lady and her maid that were admiring
the flowers. The servant did his office so gravely,
discreetly, and impressively, that the lady hovered
timorously on the steps. There was a mesmeric
influence of cold respect about his sad sphinx
eyes which seemed to draw the young Mrs.
Fermor inside the open door.

"I am afraid," she said, "that is—really I
don't know the lady—"

"She is waiting, ma'am, for you in the
drawing-room," said the menial of the stony eyes;
and then there came a melodious voice from the
stairs, and the figure of Pauline glided towards
her. She brought her in, and the cold-eyed
closed the door as though he had been a jailer.
From this afternoon it all began.

Young Mrs. Fermor hardly recovered; and,
still timorous, made as though she would go away
again. "You remember that night at the play?"
said Pauline, leading her into the drawing-room,
as though it had been a strong-room. "Of
course you forget my face. I do not forget
yours. The moment I saw you in the box I had
a sort of instinct who it was. You must know
me. And I want you to like me."

The young girl recollected that theatre very
well, and when she was looking up admiring the
flowers, also recollected the face she had seen
through the leaves. She was of a calm temper;
soft and gentle as she was, and not likely to be
flurried into speechless confusion as hapless
Violet would have been. She looked at Pauline
for a moment, and said:

"After a time I shall try. I have only seen
you once, recollect, and that for a moment."