perfectly cool on the subject of Miss Bretherton's artistic claims, but
he was conscious that it was not always very easy to do--a consciousness
that made him sometimes all the more recalcitrant under the pressure of
her celebrity.

For it seemed to him that in society he heard of nothing but her--her
beauty, her fascination, and her success. At every dinner-table he heard
stories of her, some of them evident inventions, but all tending in the
same direction--that is to say, illustrating either the girl's proud
independence and her determination to be patronised by nobody, not even
by royalty itself, or her lavish kind-heartedness and generosity towards
the poor and the inferiors of her own profession. She was for the moment
the great interest of London, and people talked of her popularity and
social prestige as a sign of the times and a proof of the changed
position of the theatre and of those belonging to it. Kendal thought it
proved no more than that an extremely beautiful girl of irreproachable
character, brought prominently before the public in any capacity
whatever, is sure to stir the susceptible English heart, and that Isabel
Bretherton's popularity was not one which would in the long run affect
the stage at all. But he kept his reflections to himself, and in general
talked about her no more than he was forced to do. He had a sort of
chivalrous feeling that those whom the girl had made in any degree her
personal friends ought, as far as possible, to stand between her and this
inquisitive excited public. And it was plain to him that the enormous
social success was not of her seeking, but of her relations.

One afternoon, between six and seven, Kendal was working alone in his
room with the unusual prospect of a clear evening before him. He had
finished a piece of writing, and was standing before the fire deep in
thought over the first paragraphs of his next chapter, when he heard a
knock; the door opened, and Wallace stood on the threshold.

'May I come in? It's a shame to disturb you; but I've really got
something important to talk to you about. I want your advice badly.'

'Oh, come in, by all means. Here's some cold tea; will you have some? or
will you stay and dine? I must dine early to-night for my work. I'll ring
and tell Mason.'

'No, don't; I can't stay. I must be in Kensington at eight.' He threw
himself into Kendal's deep reading-chair, and looked up at his friend
standing silent and expectant on th