ot sufficient
to justify his calling at her house between nine and ten o'clock at
night. But, as he must go somewhere,--and as his intimacy with Lady
Demolines was, he thought, sufficient to justify almost anything,--he
would go to Bayswater. I regret to say that he had written a
mysterious note from Paris to Madalina Demolines, saying that he
should be in London on this very night, and that it was just on the
cards that he might make his way up to Porchester Terrace before
he went to bed. The note was mysterious, because it had neither
beginning nor ending. It did not contain even initials. It was
written like a telegraph message, and was about as long. It was the
kind of thing Miss Demolines liked, Johnny thought; and there could
be no reason why he should not gratify her. It was her favourite
game. Some people like whist, some like croquet, and some like
intrigue. Madalina probably would have called it romance,--because by
nature she was romantic. John, who was made of sterner stuff, laughed
at this. He knew that there was no romance in it. He knew that he
was only amusing himself, and gratifying her at the same time, by
a little innocent pretence. He told himself that it was his nature
to prefer the society of women to that of men. He would have liked
the society of Lily Dale, no doubt, much better than that of Miss
Demolines; but as the society of Lily Dale was not to be had at that
moment, the society of Miss Demolines was the best substitute within
his reach. So he got into a cab and had himself driven to Porchester
Terrace. "Is Lady Demolines at home?" he said to the servant. He
always asked for Lady Demolines. But the page who was accustomed to
open the door for him was less false, being young, and would now
tell him, without any further fiction, that Miss Madalina was in
the drawing-room. Such was the answer he got from the page on this
evening. What Madalina did with her mother on these occasions he had
never yet discovered. There used to be some little excuses given
about Lady Demolines' state of health, but latterly Madalina had
discontinued her references to her mother's headaches. She was
standing in the centre of the drawing-room when he entered it, with
both her hands raised, and an almost terrible expression of mystery
in her face. Her hair, however, had been very carefully arranged
so as to fall with copious carelessness down her shoulders, and
altogether she was looking her best. "Oh, John," she said