as he walked on after leaving Caffyn, this indifference
suddenly vanished; his heart beat with a secret and exquisite bliss,
as he thought of this play in which Mabel was to represent his own
heroine. To hear that his work was to receive the rather moderate
distinction which can be conferred by its dramatisation on a private
stage would scarcely have elated him under ordinary circumstances; it
was no longer any concern of his at all. Still he could not resist the
subtle flattery in the knowledge that his conception was about to be
realised in a manner for which few authors would dare to hope--the
woman who had inspired it would lend it all her own grace and beauty
and tenderness to fill the faint outline he had traced with such
loving pains. All the banality of private theatricals could not spoil
that--she need not even act, she had only to be her own sweet self to
give life and charm to the poorest play, and the most incompetent of
performances. And then, as he thought of it, a wild longing came over
him to be there and see her; there might be something grotesque, and,
under the circumstances, almost undignified in such a longing now, but
it possessed him nevertheless. He would not betray himself or Mark,
but this one gratification he hungered for, and neither pride nor
prudence had power to restrain him.

He had meant to see as little as possible of Mabel on his return, but
he broke this resolution now. He would not keep away, he thought;
surely he could trust himself to bear the sight of her happiness; it
ought to reconcile him more fully to all he had endured to secure it,
and then he would be able to find out from her if this, which he had
heard from Caffyn, was really true.

And so, having procured the address from Mrs. Langton, he went on that
same afternoon to Campden Hill, not knowing, nor indeed greatly caring
just then, that this was not the way to deaden the pain at his heart.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY.

Vincent had his misgivings, as he walked towards Campden Hill, that at
such a period of the London season his journey would most probably be
a fruitless one. But as he approached the house he found one or two
carriages waiting outside, the horses troubling the hot afternoon
stillness with the sharp clinking of harness as they tossed their
impatient heads; and by the time he had reached the gate the clatter
of china and the sustained chorus of female voices coming throug