the times,' and
follow the example of other owners of picture galleries. Don't suppose
I ever doubted that it is my duty to extend, to the best of my ability,
the civilizing influences of Art. My only hesitation in the matter arose
from a dread of some accident happening, or some injury being done, to
the pictures. Even now, I can only persuade myself to try the experiment
under certain restrictions."

"A wise decision, undoubtedly," said Father Benwell. "In such a city as
this, you could hardly open your gallery to anybody who happens to pass
the house-door."

"I am glad you agree with me, Father. The gallery will be open for
the first time on Monday. Any respectably-dressed person, presenting a
visiting card at the offices of the librarians in Bond Street and Regent
Street, will receive a free ticket of admission; the number of tickets,
it is needless to say, being limited, and the gallery being only open
to the public two days in the week. You will be here, I suppose, on
Monday?"

"Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see, has only
begun."

"I am very anxious about the success of this experiment," said Lord
Loring. "Do look in at the gallery once or twice in the course of the
day, and tell me what your own impression is."

Having expressed his readiness to assist "the experiment" in every
possible way, Father Benwell still lingered in the library. He was
secretly conscious of a hope that he might, at the eleventh hour, be
invited to join Romayne at the dinner-table. Lord Loring only looked at
the clock on the mantel-piece: it was nearly time to dress for dinner.
The priest had no alternative but to take the hint, and leave the house.

Five minutes after he had withdrawn, a messenger delivered a letter for
Lord Loring, in which Father Benwell's interests were directly involved.
The letter was from Romayne; it contained his excuses for breaking his
engagement, literally at an hour's notice.

"Only yesterday," he wrote, "I had a return of what you, my dear friend,
call 'the delusion of the voice.' The nearer the hour of your dinner
approaches, the more keenly I fear that the same thing may happen in
your house. Pity me, and forgive me."

Even good-natured Lord Loring felt some difficulty in pitying and
forgiving, when he read these lines. "This sort of caprice might be
excusable in a woman," he thought. "A man ought really to be capable of
exercising some self-control. Poor Stella! And what