e world by defying its old
notions, and taking nobody's advice but my own. Follow Douglas's
precepts by all means. Do you know that it is nearly a quarter to
eight?"

"Oh! Let us go. We shall be late."

"I shall not see you to-morrow, Douglas. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Douglas, keeping at some distance; for he did not
care to offer Conolly his hand before Marian now. "Pleasant journey."

"Thank you. Hallo! [Marian had impatiently turned back.] What have you
forgotten?"

"My opera-glass," said Marian. "No, thanks: you would not know where to
look for it: I will go myself."

She went upstairs; and Conolly, after a pause, followed, and found her
in their bedroom, closing the drawer from which she had just taken the
opera-glass.

"Marian," he said: "you have been crying to-day. Is anything wrong? or
is it only nervousness?"

"Only nervousness," said Marian. "How did you find out that I had been
crying? it was only for an instant, because Nelly annoyed me. Does my
face shew it?"

"It does to me, not to anyone else. Are you more cheerful now?"

"Yes, I am all right. I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like."

Conolly recoiled, disconcerted. "Why?" he said. "Do you wish----?" He
recovered himself, and added, "It is too cold, my dear; and I must
travel very fast. I shall be busy all the time. Besides, you are
forgetting the theatre and Douglas, who, by the bye, is catching cold on
the steps."

"Well, I had better go with Douglas, since it will make you happier."

"Go with Douglas, my dear one, if it will make _you_ happier," said he,
kissing her. To his surprise, she threw her arm round him, held him fast
by the shoulder, and looked at him with extraordinary earnestness. He
gave a little laugh, and disengaged himself gently, saying, "Dont you
think your nervousness is taking a turn rather inconvenient for
Douglas?" She let her hands fall; closed her lips; and passed quietly
out. He went to the window and watched her as she entered the carriage.
Douglas held the door open for her; and Conolly, looking at him with a
sort of pity, noted that he was, in his way, a handsome man and that his
habit of taking himself very seriously gave him a certain, dignity. The
brougham rolled away into the fog. Conolly pulled down the blind, and
began to pack his portmanteau to a vigorously whistled accompaniment.

CHAPTER XVII

Conolly returned from Glasgow a little before eight on Monday evening.
There was no