thing else?'

'Here's a half-finished paper--"The Commercial Prospects of the
Bahamas."'

'Let me look.'

After reading a page or two with critically wrinkled forehead, Munden
laid it down.

'Seems pretty solid,--libellous, too, I should say. You've more stuff
in you than I thought. All right: go ahead.--Come and dine with me
to-morrow, to meet a man who may be useful.'

'To-morrow I can't. I dine at Lady Pollard's.'

'Who is she?'

'Didn't you know Pollard of Trinity?--the only son of his mother, and
she a widow.'

'Next day, then.'

'Can't. I dine with some people at Bedford Park.'

Munden lifted his eyebrows.

'At this rate, you may live pretty well on a dress suit. Any more
engagements?'

'None that I know of. But I shall accept all that offer. I'm hungry
for the society of decent English people. I used to neglect my
acquaintances; I know better now. Go and live for a month in a cheap
New York boarding-house, and you'll come out with a wholesome taste for
English refinement.'

To enable his friend to read, Tarrant had already lit a lamp. Munden,
glancing about the room, said carelessly:

'Do you still possess the furniture of the old place?'

'No,' was the answer, given with annoyance. 'Vawdrey had it sold for
me.'

'Pictures, books, and all the nick-nacks?'

'Everything.--Of course I'm sorry for it; but I thought at the time that
I shouldn't return to England for some years.'

'You never said anything of that kind to me.'

'No, I didn't,' the other replied gloomily. And all at once he fell into
so taciturn a mood, that his companion, after a few more remarks and
inquiries, rose from his chair to leave.

From seven to nine Tarrant sat resolutely at his table, and covered a
few pages with the kind of composition which now came most easily to
him,--a somewhat virulent sarcasm. He found pleasure in the work; but
after nine o'clock his thoughts strayed to matters of personal interest,
and got beyond control. Would the last post of the evening bring him
an answer to a letter he had despatched this morning? At length he laid
down his pen, and listened nervously for that knock which, at one time
or another, is to all men a heart-shaking sound.

It came at the street door, and was quickly followed by a tap at his
own. Nancy had lost no time in replying. What her letter might contain
he found it impossible to conjecture. Reproaches? Joyous welcome? Wrath?
Forgiveness? He knew her so imperfectly,