boy, this is no ordinary case"--he waved
a small hand ceremoniously--"it's a _cause celebre_ or I shouldn't have
bothered myself with it."

Lurby opened the drawing-room door.

"How's Rosamund?" was Beatrice's first question to Dion, as they shook
hands.

"All right. I left her just going to feed from a tray in her little
room."

"Rosamund always loved having a meal on a tray," said Bruce Evelin.
"She's a big child still. But enthusiasts never really grow up, luckily
for them."

"Dinner is served, sir."

"Daventry, will you take Beatrice?"

As Dion followed with Bruce Evelin, he said:

"So you've got Daventry a case!"

"Yes."

Bruce Evelin lowered his voice.

"He's a good fellow and a clever fellow, but he's got to work. He's been
slacking for years."

Dion understood. Bruce Evelin wished Beatrice to marry Daventry.

"He respects you tremendously, sir. If any one can make him work, you
can."

"I'm going to," returned Bruce Evelin, with his quiet force. "He's got
remarkable ability, and the slacker--well----"

He looked at Dion with his dark, informed eyes, in which knowledge of
the world and of men always seemed sitting.

"I can bear with bad energy almost more easily and comfortably than with
slackness."

During dinner, without seeming to, Dion observed and considered Beatrice
and Daventry, imagining them wife and husband. He felt sure Daventry
would be very happy. As to Beatrice, he could not tell. There was
always in Beatrice's atmosphere, or nearly always, a faint suggestion
of sadness which, curiously, was not disagreeable but attractive. Dion
doubted whether Daventry could banish it. Perhaps no one could, and
Daventry had, perhaps, that love which does not wish to alter, which
says, "I love you with your little sadness--keep it."

Daventry was exceptionally animated at dinner. The prospect of actually
appearing in court as counsel in a case had evidently worked upon him
like a powerful tonic. Always able to be amusing when he chose,
he displayed to-night a new something--was it a hint of personal
dignity?--which Dion had not hitherto found in him. "Dear old Daventry,"
the agreeable, and obviously clever, nobody, who was a sure critic of
others, and never did anything himself, who blinked at moments with a
certain feebleness, and was too fond of the cozy fireside, or the deep
arm-chairs of his club, had evidently caught hold of the flying skirts
of his self-respect, and was thoroughly enjo