ened, above and below? And the lips--had art
been delicately invoked, or was Nature alone responsible?

"I copy things for Arthur," said Doris. "Unfortunately, I can't type."

At the sound of the young and musical voice, the gentleman with the
Dundreary whiskers--Sir Luke Malford--who had seemed half asleep, turned
sharply to look at the speaker. Doris too was in a white dress, of the
simplest stuff and make; but it became her. So did the straw hat, with
its wreath of wild roses, which she had trimmed herself that morning.
There was not the slightest visible sign of tremor in the young woman;
and Sir Luke's inner mind applauded her.

"No fool!--and a lady," he thought. "Let's see what Rachel will make of
her."

"Then you don't help him in the writing?" said Lady Dunstable, still
with the same detached air. Doris laughed.

"I don't know what Arthur would say if I proposed it. He never lets
anybody go near him when he's writing."

"I see; like all geniuses, he's dangerous on the loose." Was Lady
Dunstable's smile just touched with sarcasm? "Well!--has the success of
the lectures surprised you?"

Doris pondered.

"No," she said at last, "not really. I always thought Arthur had it in
him."

"But you hardly expected such a run--such an excitement!"

"I don't know," said Doris, coolly. "I think I did--sometimes. The
question is how long it will last."

She looked, smiling, at her interrogator.

The gentleman with the whiskers stooped across the table.

"Oh, nothing lasts in this world. But that of course is what makes a
good time so good."

Doris turned towards him--demurring--for the sake of conversation. "I
never could understand how Cinderella enjoyed the ball."

"For thinking of the clock?" laughed Sir Luke. "No, no!--you can't mean
that. It's the expectation of the clock that doubles the pleasure. Of
course you agree, Rachel!"--he turned to her--"else why did you read me
that very doleful poem yesterday, on this very theme?--that it's only
the certainty of death that makes life agreeable? By the way, George
Eliot had said it before!"

"The poem was by a friend of mine," said Lady Dunstable, coldly. "I read
it to you to see how it sounded. But I thought it poor stuff."

"How unkind of you! The man who wrote it says he lives upon your
friendship."

"That, perhaps, is why he's so thin."

Sir Luke laughed again.

"To be sure, I saw the poor man--after you had talked to him the other
night--going to