rs off the stage as well as
on." She hangs down her head. He goes to her and kisses her--without any
mistletoe; she murmurs some doubt and hesitation, in her maiden shyness;
he laughingly reassures her; it is all over, in half a dozen seconds.
And then? Why, then he has secured for himself a sufficiently
good-natured life-companion; it will be convenient in many ways,
especially when they are engaged at the same theatre; he will marry in
his own sphere, and everybody be satisfied. If he has to give up his
bachelor ways and habits, she will probably look after a little
establishment as well as another; where there is no frantic passion on
either side, there will be no frantic jealousy; and, after all, what is
better than peace and quiet and content?

Was he too indolent, then, to accept this future that seemed to be
offered to him?

"Isn't it rather odd to go to a Brighton hotel for Christmas?" he said,
at random.

"It's the swagger thing to do, don't you know?" said Miss Burgoyne,
whose phraseology sometimes made him wince. "It's the latest fad among
people who have no formal family ties. I can imagine it will be the
jolliest thing possible. Instead of the big family gathering, where half
the relations hate the sight of the other half, you have all nice
people, picked friends and acquaintances; and you go away down to a
place where you can have your choice of rooms, where you have every
freedom and no responsibility, where you can have everything you want
and no trouble in getting it. Instead of foggy London, the sea; and at
night, instead of Sir Roger de Coverley with a lot of hobbledehoys, you
have a charming little dance, on a good floor, with capital partners.
Come, Master Lionel, change your mind; and you and I will go down
together on Christmas morning in the Pullman. Most of the others are
there already; it's only one or two poor professionals who will have to
go down on Christmas-day."

But Lionel shook his head.

"Duty--duty," he murmured.

"Duty!" said she, contemptuously. "Duty is a thing you owe to other
people, which no one ever thinks of paying to you." And therewith this
profound moralist and epigrammatist tucked up her white satin train and
waited for him to open the door, so that she might make her way to the
stage, he humbly following.

On the Christmas morning the display of parcels, packets, and envelopes,
large and small, spread out on the side-table in his sitting-room was
simply portento