rs of close study to be rendered practical. For
instance, look at my wife's toilet: it is bridal, and yet we have been
married three years."

"Quite so; and that toilet means that you are the luckiest fellow in the
world," said Mr. Ayrton.

"I admit the interpretation," said her husband. "I told the hansom to
wait for me. He is at the door now. You have had no opera to-night, my
dear?"

"You would not expect me to go alone? Phyllis was dining at the
Earlscourts'," said the wife.

"You are the soul of discretion, my beloved," said the husband. "Is your
stock of phrases equal to a suggestion as to what instrument is the soul
of a woman, Ayrton?" he added. "Her heart is a barometer, her toilet a
thermometer, and her soul----"

"The soul of a woman is not an instrument, but a flower--a lily," said
Mr. Ayrton.

"And my wife wears her soul upon her sleeve," said Mr. Linton, touching
the design on the lace that fell from her shoulders.

"But not for daws to peck at--that is the heart," laughed Mr. Ayrton.
"Talking of woman's soul, how is Lady Earlscourt?" he added, to his
daughter.

"I was so sorry that I was at that stupid dinner," said Phyllis. "I
might have enjoyed the music of 'Romeo and Juliet.' But I had engaged
myself to Lady Earlscourt a fortnight ago."

"You did not see Lord Earlscourt, at any rate," said her father.

"No; he left us in the evening for Southampton," said Phyllis.

"And, curiously enough, I dined with him at the club," said her father.
"Yes, he came in with Herbert Courtland at half-past seven; he had met
Courtland and persuaded him to join him in his cruise to Norway. They
dined at my table, and by the time we had finished Courtland's man had
arrived with his bag. He had sent the man a message from the club to
pack. They left by the eight-forty train, and I expect they are well
under way by this time."

"That's quite too bad of Courtland," said Mr. Linton. "I wanted to have
a talk with him--a rather serious talk."

Ella had listened to Mr. Ayrton's account of that little dinner party at
the club with white cheeks--a moment before they had been red--and with
her lips tightly closed. Her hands were clenched until the tips of the
nails were biting into each of her palms, before he had come to the end
of his story--a story of one incident. But when her husband had spoken
her hands relaxed. The blaze that had come to her eyes for a second went
out without a flicker.

"A serious talk?" sh