confessed illustrious some day, depend upon it. I trust you are well?'

'Thanks, I'm very well indeed,' murmured Alice, rather disconcerted by
such politeness.

'And Mrs. Mutimer? That is well. By-the-by,' he proceeded to Richard,
'I have a piece of work in hand that will deeply interest you. I am
translating the great treatise of Marx, "Das capital." It occurs to me
that a chapter now and then might see the light in the "Fiery Cross."
How do you view that suggestion?'

Richard did not care to hide his suspicion, and even such an
announcement as this failed to move him to cordiality.

'You might drop a line about it to Mr. Westlake,' he said.

'Mr. Westlake? Oh! but I quite understood that you had practically the
conduct of the paper.'

Richard again smiled.

'Mr. Westlake edits it,' he said.

Mr. Keene waved his hand in sign of friendly intelligence. Then he
changed the subject.

'I ventured to put at Miss Mutimer's disposal certain tickets I
hold--professionally--for the Regent's Theatre to-night--the dress
circle. I have five seats in all. May I have the pleasure of your
company, Mr. Mutimer?'

'I'm only in town for a night,' Richard replied; 'and I can't very well
spare the time.'

'To be sure, to be sure; I was inconsiderate. Then Miss Mutimer and my
friend Harry--'

'I'm sorry they're not at liberty,' was Richard's answer to the murmured
interrogation. 'If they had accepted your invitation be' so good as to
excuse them. I happen to want them particularly this evening.'

'In that case, I have of course not a word to say, save to express my
deep regret at losing the pleasure of their company. But another time,
I trust. I--I feel presumptuous, but it is my earnest hope to be allowed
to stand on the footing not only of a comrade in the cause, but of a
neighbour; I live quite near. Forgive me if I seem a little precipitate.
The privilege is so inestimable.'

Richard made no answer, and Mr. Keene forthwith took his leave, suave to
the last. When he was gone, Richard went to the dining-room, where his
mother was sitting. Mrs. Mutimer would have given much to be allowed to
sit in the kitchen; she had a room of her own upstairs, but there
she felt too remote from the centre of domestic operations, and the
dining-room was a compromise. Her chair was always placed in a rather
dusky corner; she generally had sewing on her lap, but the consciousness
that her needle was not really in demand, and that she might