ers were due to motor
over to lunch one day, and a famous editor was to stay for a couple of
nights, while her dear friends the Bracebridges (Earl and Countess),
with their son and daughter, were due for their annual visit.

Distressed by this atmosphere of social calculation, Clara spent most
of her time with Verschoyle, walking about the hills or rowing on the
lake; but unfortunately she roused the boyish jealousy in Sir Henry,
who, as he had 'discovered' her, regarded her as his property, and
considered that any romance she might desire should be through him....
He infuriated his wife by preferring Clara to all the other young
ladies, and one night when, after dinner, he took her for a moon-light
walk, she created a gust of laughter by saying,--

'Henry can no more resist the smell of grease-paint than a dog can
resist that of a grilled bone.'

This was amusing but unjust, for Sir Henry regarded his desire for
Clara's society as a healthy impulse towards higher things--at least,
he told her so as he led her out through the orchard and up the stony
path, down which trickled a little stream, to the crag that dominated
the house and garden. It was covered with heather and winberries, and
just below the summit grew two rowan-trees. So bright was the moon
that the colour of the berries was almost perceptible. Sir Henry stood
moon-gazing and presently heaved a great sigh,--

'A-a-ah!'

'What a perfect night!' said Clara.

'On such a night as this----'

'On such a night----'

'I've forgotten,' said Sir Henry. 'It is in the _Merchant of Venice_.
Something about moonlight when Lorenzo and Jessica eloped. You would
make a perfect Jessica.... I played Lorenzo once.'

Clara wanted to laugh. It was one of the most delightful elements in
Sir Henry's character that he could never see himself as old, or as
anything but romantically heroic.

'Yes,' he said; 'you have made all the difference in the world. It was
remarkable how you shone out among the players in my theatre.... It is
even more remarkable among all these other masqueraders in that house
down there. All the world's a stage----'

'Oh, no,' said Clara. 'It is beautiful. I didn't know England was so
lovely. As we came north in the car I thought each county better than
the last--and I forgot London altogether.'

'It is some years since I toured,' said Sir Henry. 'My wife does not
approve of it, but there is nothing like it for keeping you up to th