lholland moved away, smiling, but with a sob in her throat.

"It's like all life," she thought--"love and death, side by side."

And she remembered that comparison by a son of Oxford, of each moment,
as it passes, to a watershed "whence equally the seas of life and
death are fed."

But Connie was determined to carry things off with a laugh. She sat down
beside Otto, looking businesslike.

"Douglas and I"--the name came out quite pat--"have been discussing how
long it really takes to get married."

Mrs. Mulholland laughed.

"Mrs. Hooper has been enjoying Alice's trousseau so much, you needn't
expect she'll let you get through yours in a hurry."

"It's going to be my trousseau, not Aunt Ellen's," said Connie with
decision. "Let me see. It's now nearly Christmas. Didn't we say the 12th
of January?" She looked lightly at Falloden.

"Somewhere near it," said Falloden, his smile at last answering hers.

"We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other," said
Connie coolly. "Then"--she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland's knee--"you
bring him to Marseilles to meet us?"

"Certainly--at your orders."

Connie looked at Otto.

"Dear Otto?" The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully.

"You're awfully good to me. But how can I come to be a burden on you?"

"But I shall go too," said Mrs. Mulholland firmly.

Connie exclaimed in triumph.

"We four--to front the desert!--while he"--she nodded towards
Sorell--"is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. You mayn't know it"--she
addressed Sorell--"but on Monday, January 24th--I think I've got the
date right--you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian's Villa. The
weather's arranged for--and the carriage is ordered."

She looked at him askance; but her colour had risen. So had his. He
looked down on her while Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden were both talking
fast to Otto.

"You little witch!" said Sorell in a low voice--"what are you after
now?"

Connie laughed in his face.

"You'll go--you'll see!"

* * * * *

The little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast.
Champagne was brought in, and Otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears
and the incomparable greatness of Poland as usual. Nobody minded. After
dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed Brahms and Schumann, in
the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps. But Connie
insisted on an early departure. "My guardian will have to sleep upon
it--a