three times over now. A cab horse fell down,
and a gentleman called another cab for you."

Young Mrs. Fermor coloured.

A cold fog or Scotch mist had covered up the
stage moon. Now she saw the drum hoisted—
and, wounded, withdrew her little narrative.

"Can he be getting tired of me already," she
thought, a little bitterly. " How cold and cruel
he can be." She had a dismal evening before
her. The personal worship, the little censers
that swung delicate little compliments, and the
pretty sweet- smelling vapours of Roger le
Garçon had been tumbled away into a corner.
They were tarnished; they were old plate now.

A note was brought in. She took it, wondering
who was to write her notes. She turned to
the signature, and found it signed "Pauline
Manuel." As Pauline's face flashed and glittered,
so there was something of the same light in these
written words, something in the invitation they
gave. She had been expecting her, she said. She
wished to see her so much, to talk over a hundred
matters. " I am alone," said Pauline, " and have
a hundred other things I want to keep out of my
thoughts. You owe me a debt—you should be
generous. Your husband kindly called twice today,
but half by a mistake, half out of intention,
was not admitted. I can know you, even like you
—but him not so much; at least, not for a long
time. You will understand this. Come to me
tomorrow."

Colour flushed her cheeks. " So this is what
he is busy with," she said; " carrying on a plot,
a mystery. Oh, I am very miserable, very unhappy."

Fermor came in precisely at this unlucky moment.
He saw her tell-tale cheeks. He was intolerant,
and did not relish any one being out of
humour but himself. "What," he said, "not
blown over yet? Is it possible that you are
displeased because I did not enter into your cab
adventure? Good gracious! Come, now, you
won't be so unreasonable." There was an air of
sarcastic good humour in his tone, which was a
little disagreeable.

Young Mrs. Fermor looked at him trembling.
Her round red lips were quivering. She was
thinking of all her " wrongs" accumulating since
the Paris night.

But she answered calmly: " You might reduce
every action to that shape, if we looked at it in
that sort of light."

Fermor did not like being argued with, so he
said, sharply, "And let me tell you, my dear
child, now that you are come to live in London,
that this making a nine days' wonder out of every
cab you take, and of every man you pick up out of
the street, will lead you into all sorts of
embarrassments. Seriously, we should get rid of our
little Eastport simplicity, my dear."

Her lips shaped themselves into deep reproach.
"How cold, how unkind you are," they seemed to
say. Fermor heard these words as much as if
they had been spoken. " Go to your father," he
said, " and tell him about the cab. I have business
now, my dear,—letters. I have been worried
all day. The story will amuse him."

Young Mrs. Fermor, with her round soft
cheeks full of colour, was sensitive, and a little
quick of temper. Over the pantomime moon a
cloud had suddenly spread itself. The soft
cheeks were glowing and flaming. " How cold
and unkind," she said, quickly. " I did not expect
this from you. If papa knew this—-"

Now indeed the colour came to Fermor's
cheeks. " Don't say that," he answered, with a
trembling voice; " never speak in that way to
me, if you wish us to live quietly together. I
shall not be intimidated by his name. No, I am
not come to that; no," continued he, walking up
and down, " though people may say I have sold
myself 'into genteel slavery.'"

Now was the fitting time for opening the
hysterical flood-gates. Down burst the torrent
of tears, carrying with it, like stones, ejaculations
of cruelty and unkindness. " Indeed, I might
have expected this," she said. " I was warned
in time. And when she, poor thing, was treated
in that way—"

"She! Who?" said Fermor, stopping short
in his walk, and turning pale.

"I know it," said young Mrs. Fermor. " It
was kept very secret; but I have heard it all.
Perhaps it will be my fate one of these days.
God help me. It was not suitable that I should
know it. I was kept in the dark, it seems—un
—until—until the slavery—the genteel slavery
was accomplished. Yes, I know the whole,
though you had reasons for not telling me—what
the poor girl, now in her grave, who, I was told,
was married and happy—"

"Never, never!" said Fermor, eagerly. "I
did not indeed. I could not tell such a falsehood."
And indeed, to do him justice, he had
never said so. "But what is the meaning of
this? This is simply absurd. Do let us have
no vulgar matrimonial quarrels—not as yet, at
least," he added, with a forced smile. He tried
thus to sweep away the subject into a corner.
But unhappily—to use the odious language of
the ring—here was first blood. Very soon the
pantomime, with its stage moon, would be
withdrawn. The "run" was nearly over.

It was of course patched up; both shrank a
little from this " vulgar quarrelling." They had
not yet learned to cast down the idols, or, at
least, to be careless about casting them down.

CHAPTER VIII. AT A BROUGHAM WINDOW.

The Irrefragable Insurance Company, Limited,
had a new home in the West-end, a very narrow
strip of front, that looked like the "console" of
a mahogany sideboard, or like the edge of a
thin slice of bride-cake. The small patch of
ground upon which it stood would not have
furnished room—by way of burial—for many of
the " Lives" the office insured; yet, if it had
been floored with golden sovereigns instead of
encaustic tiles, it would not have represented all
it cost. It was doing a thriving business,