sor in private. Most probably he would not
be invited to join his wife and daughter, but if he were, he could make
some excuse. They might think it a little odd--a little discourteous,
perhaps; but they would be too relieved to care much about that.

When he got to Cottesmore Gardens, and was actually at the door of the
Futvoyes' house, one of the neatest and demurest in that retired and
irreproachable quarter, he began to feel a craven hope that the
Professor might be out, in which case he need only leave the catalogue
and write a letter when he got home, reporting his non-success at the
sale, and returning the note.

And, as it happened, the Professor _was_ out, and Horace was not so glad
as he thought he should be. The maid told him that the ladies were in
the drawing-room, and seemed to take it for granted that he was coming
in, so he had himself announced. He would not stay long--just long
enough to explain his business there, and make it clear that he had no
wish to force his acquaintance upon them. He found Mrs. Futvoye in the
farther part of the pretty double drawing-room, writing letters, and
Sylvia, more dazzlingly fair than ever in some sort of gauzy black frock
with a heliotrope sash and a bunch of Parma violets on her breast, was
comfortably established with a book in the front room, and seemed
surprised, if not resentful, at having to disturb herself.

"I must apologise," he began, with an involuntary stiffness, "for
calling at this very unceremonious time; but the fact is, the
Professor----"

"I know all about it," interrupted Mrs. Futvoye, brusquely, while her
shrewd, light-grey eyes took him in with a cool stare that was
humorously observant without being aggressive. "We heard how shamefully
my husband abused your good-nature. Really, it was too bad of him to ask
a busy man like you to put aside his work and go and spend a whole day
at that stupid auction!"

"Oh, I'd nothing particular to do. I can't call myself a busy
man--unfortunately," said Horace, with that frankness which scorns to
conceal what other people know perfectly well already.

"Ah, well, it's very nice of you to make light of it; but he ought not
to have done it--after so short an acquaintance, too. And to make it
worse, he has had to go out unexpectedly this evening, but he'll be back
before very long if you don't mind waiting."

"There's really no need to wait," said Horace, "because this catalogue
will tell him everything, and