"I do not think so," said Marguerite, with
a flushed cheek, and a look away from the
visitor, that was almost defiant. "I think it is
as much exalted by us peasants."

"Fie, fie, Miss Marguerite," said Obenreizer.
"You speak in proud England."

''I speak in proud earnest," she answered,
quietly resuming her work, "and I am not
English, but a Swiss peasant's daughter."

There was a dismissal of the subject in her
words, which Vendale could not contend against.
He only said in an earnest manner, "I most
heartily agree with you, Miss Obenreizer, and I
have already said so, as Mr. Obenreizer will bear
witness," which he by no means did, "in this
house."

Now, Vendale's eyes were quick eyes,
and sharply watching Madame Dor by times,
noted something in the broad back view of that
lady. There was considerable pantomimic
expression in her glove-cleaning. It had been
very softly done when he spoke with
Marguerite, or it had altogether stopped, like the
action of a listener. When Obenreizer's peasant-
speech came to an end, she rubbed most
vigorously, as if applauding it. And once or twice,
as the glove (which she always held before
her, a little above her face) turned in the
air, or as this finger went down, or that went
up, he even fancied that it made some
telegraphic communication to Obenreizer: whose
back was certainly never turned upon it, though
he did not seem at all to heed it.

Vendale observed, too, that in Marguerite's
dismissal of the subject twice forced upon him
to his misrepresentation, there was an indignant
treatment of her guardian which she tried to
check: as though she would have flamed out
against him, but for the influence of fear. He
also observed—though this was not much—
that he never advanced within the distance
of her at which he first placed himself: as
though there were limits fixed between them.
Neither had he ever spoken of her without the
prefix "Miss," though whenever he uttered it, it
was with the faintest trace of an air of mockery.
And now it occurred to Vendale for the first
time that something curious in the man which
he had never before been able to define, was
definable as a certain subtle essence of mockery
that eluded touch or analysis. He felt convinced
that Marguerite was in some sort a prisoner
as to her free will though she held her own
against those two combined, by the force of
her character, which was nevertheless
inadequate to her release. To feel convinced of this,
was not to feel less disposed to love her than
he had always been. In a word, he was
desperately in love with her, and thoroughly
determined to pursue the opportunity which had
opened at last.

For the present, he merely touched upon the
pleasure that Wilding and Co. would soon have
in entreating Miss Obenreizer to honour their
establishment with her presence—a curious old
place, though a bachelor house withal—and so
did not protract his visit beyond such a visit's
ordinary length. Going down stairs, conducted
by his host, he found the Obenreizer counting-
house at the back of the entrance-hall, and
several shabby men in outlandish garments,
hanging about, whom Obenreizer put aside that
he might pass, with a few words in patois.

"Countrymen," he explained, as he attended
Vendale to the door. "Poor compatriots.
Grateful and attached, like dogs! Good-bye.
To meet again. So glad!"

Two more light touches on his elbows
dismissed him into the street.

Sweet Marguerite at her frame, and Madame
Dor's broad back at her telegraph, floated before
him to Cripple Corner. On his arrival there,
Wilding was closeted with Bintrey. The cellar
doors happening to be open, Vendale lighted a
candle in a cleft stick, and went down for a
cellarous stroll. Graceful Marguerite floated
before him faithfully, but Madame Dor's broad
back remained outside.

The vaults were very spacious, and very
old. There had been a stone crypt down
there, when bygones were not bygones; some
said, part of a monkish refectory; some said,
of a chapel; some said, of a Pagan temple. It
was all one now. Let who would, make what
he liked of a crumbled pillar and a broken arch
or so. Old Time had made what he liked of it,
and was quite indifferent to contradiction.

The close air, the musty smell, and the
thunderous rumbling in the streets above, as being
out of the routine of ordinary life, went well
enough with the picture of pretty Marguerite
holding her own against those two. So Vendale
went on until, at a turning in the vaults, he saw
a light like the light he carried.

"Oh! You are here, are you, Joey?"

"Oughtn't it rather to go, 'Oh! You're
here, are you, Master George?' For it's my
business to be here. But it ain't yourn."

"Don't grumble, Joey."

"Oh! I don't grumble," returned the
Cellarman. "If anything grumbles, it's what
I've took in through the pores; it ain't me.
Have a care as something in you don't begin
a-grumbling, Master George. Stop here long
enough for the wapours to work, and they'll be
at it."

His present occupation consisted of poking
his head into the bins, making measurements
and mental calculations, and entering them in a
rhinoceros-hide-looking note-book, like a piece
of himself.

"They'll be at it," he resumed, laying the
wooden rod that he measured with, across
two casks, entering his last calculation, and
straightening his back, "trust 'em! And so
you've regularly come into the business, Master
George?"

"Regularly. I hope you don't object,
Joey?"

"/ don't, bless you. But Wapours objects
that you're too young. You're both on you
too young."

"We shall get over that objection day by
day, Joey."

"Aye, Master George; but I shall day by
day get over the objection that I'm too old, and