which chiefly
struck the mind of Oliver Trent as he entered Ethel's drawing-room one
afternoon, and stumbled over a footstool placed where no footstool ought
to be.

"I wish," he began, somewhat irritably, as he touched Ethel's forehead
with his lips, "that you would not make your room quite so much like a
fancy fair, Ethel."

Ethel raised her eyebrows. "Why, Oliver, only the other day you said how
pretty it was!"

"Pretty! I hate the word. As if 'prettiness' could be taken as a test of
what was best in art."

"My room isn't 'art,'" pouted Ethel; "it's _me_."

The sentence might be ungrammatical, but it was strictly true. The room
represented Ethel's character exactly. It was odd, quaint, striking, and
attractive. But Oliver was not in the mood to see its attractiveness.

"It is certainly a medley," he replied, with some incisiveness. "How
many styles do you think are represented in the place? Japanese,
Egyptian, Renaissance, Louis Quinze, Queen Anne, Early Georgian----"

"Oh, no! please don't go on!" cried Ethel, with mock earnestness. "_Not_
Early Georgian, please! Anything but that!"

"It is all incongruous and out of taste," said Oliver, in an
ill-tempered tone, and then he threw himself into a deep, comfortable
lounging chair, and closed his eyes as if the sight of the room were too
much for his nerves.

Ethel remained standing: her pretty _mignonne_ figure was motionless;
her bright face was thoughtful and overcast.

"Do you mean," she said, quietly, "that I am incongruous and out of
taste too!"

There was a new note in her voice. Usually it was light and bird-like:
now there was something a little more weighty, a little more serious,
than had been heard in it before. Oliver noted the change, and moved his
head restlessly; he did not want to quarrel with Ethel, but he was ill
at ease in her presence, and therefore apt to be exceedingly irritable
with her.

"You wrest my words, of course," he answered. "You always do. There's no
arguing with--with--a woman."

"With _me_ you were about to say. Don't spare me. What other accusations
have you to bring!"

"Accusations! Nonsense!"

"It is not nonsense, Oliver." Her voice trembled. "I have felt for some
time that all was not right between us. I can't shut my eyes. I must
believe what I see, and what I feel. We must understand one another."

Oliver's eyes were wide open now. He began to see that he had gone a
little too far. It would not do to snub