heatres; an occasional turn of his speech, and
still more his favourite gestures, bore evidence to that period of his
career. Instead of making direct reply to Alice's question, he stood for
a moment as if dazed; then flinging back his body, smote his forehead
with a ringing slap, and groaned 'O Heaven!'

'What's the matter?' cried the girl, not quite knowing whether to be
amused or alarmed.

But Mr. Keene was rushing from the room, and in an instant the house
door sounded loudly behind him. Alice stood disconcerted; then, thinking
she understood, laughed gaily and ran upstairs to complete her
packing. In a quarter of an hour Mr. Keene's return brought her to the
drawing-room again. The journalist was propping himself against the
mantelpiece, gasping, his arms hanging limp, his hair disordered. As
Alice approached he staggered forward, fell on one knee, and held to her
the paper she had mentioned.

'Pardon--forgive!' he panted.

'Why, where ever have you been?' exclaimed Alice.

'No matter! what are time and space? Forgive me, Miss Mutimer! I deserve
to be turned out of the house, and never stand in the light of your
countenance again.'

'But how foolish! As if it mattered all that. What a state you're in!
I'll go and get you a glass of wine.'

She ran to the dining-room, and returned with a decanter and glass on a
tray. Mr. Keene had sunk upon a settee, one arm hanging over the back,
his eyes closed.

'You have pardoned me?' he murmured, regarding her with weary rapture.

'I don't see what there is to pardon. Do drink a glass of wine! Shall I
pour it out for you?'

'Drink and service for the gods!'

'Do you mean the people in the gallery?' Alice asked roguishly,
recalling a term in which Mr. Keene had instructed her at their latest
visit to the theatre.

'You are as witty as you are beautiful!' he sighed, taking the glass and
draining it. Alice turned away to the fire; decidedly Mr. Keene was in
a gallant mood this evening; hitherto his compliments had been far more
guarded.

They began to converse in a more terrestrial manner. Alice wanted to
know whom she was likely to meet at Wanley; and Mr. Keene, in a light
way, sketched for her the Waltham family. She became thoughtful whilst
he was describing Adela Waltham, and subsequently recurred several times
to that young lady. The journalist allowed himself to enter into detail,
and Alice almost ceased talking.

It drew on to half-past nine. Mr. Keene ne