al of him. For Lesley went to sit with Ethel as was her
wont, and Maurice came to dine at Mr. Brooke's. After the early dinner,
Lady Alice noticed that there was some parleying between the guest and
his host.

"I am going," said Maurice in an urgent undertone. To which Caspar
returned a cheerful answer.

"All right, old man; but I am going too." And then Mr. Kenyon knitted
his brows and looked vexed.

Caspar at once noted his wife's glance of inquiry. "Has Lesley told you
nothing about our Sunday meetings at the Club? We generally betake
ourselves to North London on a Sunday afternoon. Mr. Kenyon thinks I had
better stay with you, and--I don't."

From Maurice's uncomfortable looks, Lady Alice gathered that there was
something doubtful in the proceeding. "Will you let me go with you?" she
said, by way of experiment.

There was an exchange of astonished and rather embarrassed looks all
round. Caspar elevated his eyebrows and clutched his beard: Miss Brooke
made a curious sound, something like a snort; and Maurice flushed a deep
and dusky red; indications which all annoyed Lady Alice, although she
did not quite know what they signified. She rose from her chair and took
the matter into her own hands; but all without the slightest change in
the manner of graceful indifference which had grown natural to her of
late years.

"That is the place where Lesley used to go," she said. "She tells me she
sings to the people sometimes. I cannot sing, but I can play the piano a
little, if that is any good. Sophy is going, is she not? And I should
like to go too."

"There is no reason why you should not," said Mr. Brooke rather
abruptly. But the gleam in his eye told of pleasure. "There are some
very rough characters at the club sometimes, you know. And perhaps the
reception they give me to-day will not be of the pleasantest."

Lady Alice looked at her husband with a mixture of wonder and
admiration. The calm way in which he sometimes alluded to his present
circumstances, without a trace of bitterness or fretfulness, amazed her.
In old days she would have put it down to "good breeding--good manners,"
some superficial veneer of good society of which she thoroughly
approved; but she had seen too much of the seamy side of "good society"
now to be able to accept this explanation of his calmness. It was not
want of sensitiveness, she was sure of that: he was by no means obtuse:
it was simply that his large, strong nature rose above t