ay
morning, and the ladies at No. 10 were preparing for their devotions.
Mrs. Demijohn herself never went to church, having some years since
had a temporary attack of sciatica, which had provided her with a
perpetual excuse for not leaving the house on a Sunday morning. She
was always left at home with a volume of Blair's Sermons; but Clara,
who was a clever girl, was well aware that more than half a page was
never read. She was aware also that great progress was then made with
the novel which happened to have last come into the house from the
little circulating library round the corner. The ringing of the
neighbouring church bell had come to its final tinkling, and Mrs.
Duffer knew that she must start, or disgrace herself in the eyes of
the pew-opener. "Come, my dear," she said; and away they went. As the
door of No. 10 opened so did that of No. 11 opposite, and the four
ladies, including Marion Fay, met in the road. "You have a visitor
this morning," said Clara.

"Yes;--a friend of my son's."

"We know all about it," said Clara. "Don't you think he's a very
fine-looking young man, Miss Fay?"

"Yes, I do," said Marion. "He is certainly a handsome young man."

"Beauty is but skin deep," said Mrs. Duffer.

"But still it goes a long way," said Clara, "particularly with high
birth and noble rank."

"He is an excellent young man, as far as I know him," said Mrs.
Roden, thinking that she was called upon to defend her son's friend.

Hampstead had returned home on the Saturday, and had taken the
earliest opportunity on the following Sunday morning to go over to
his friend at Holloway. The distance was about six miles, and he had
driven over, sending the vehicle back with the intention of walking
home. He would get his friend to walk with him, and then should take
place that conversation which he feared would become excessively
unpleasant before it was finished. He was shown up to the
drawing-room of No. 11, and there he found all alone a young woman
whom he had never seen before. This was Marion Fay, the daughter of
Zachary Fay, a Quaker, who lived at No. 17, Paradise Row. "I had
thought Mrs. Roden was here," he said.

"Mrs. Roden will be down directly. She is putting her bonnet on to go
to church."

"And Mr. Roden?" he asked. "He I suppose is not going to church with
her?"

"Ah, no; I wish he were. George Roden never goes to church."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"For his mother's sake I was speaking;--but why