think?"

"At Arthur's Bridge? Five minutes--perhaps less."

"He took a good look at you?"

"I suppose so. I think he did, as soon as he had got the dog chained. Oh
yes--I should say certainly! I fancied he might have seen me before, but
it seems not."

"He says not. But you were not out when he went to Konigsberg."

"Oh no--I had quite a long innings after that.... Well!--it _does_ sound
like cricket, doesn't it? Go on."

"Oh--I see what you mean. What a ridiculous girl you are! What was I
saying!... Oh, I recollect! That was just after he graduated at Oxford.
Then he went to South America with Engelhardt. He really has been very
little at home for three years--over three years--past."

"We shall see if he knows me. I won't say anything to guide him." Then
he heard his sister's voice reply to the speaker with words she had used
before:--"You know you must not expect too much." To which Lady
Gwendolen reiterated: "Oh, you may trust me. I shall say nothing to him
about it.... Oh, you darling!" This was to Achilles, manifestly. He had
become restless at the sound of conversation below, and had been
looking round the door-jamb to see if by any chance a dog could get
out. The entry of the nurse a moment since, with a proto-stimulant on a
tray, had let him out to tear down the stairs to the garden, rudely
thrusting aside the noble owner of the house, out of bounds in a
dressing-gown and able to defy Society.

No lack of sight can quench the image in its victim's brain of Achilles'
greeting to the owners of the two voices. His sister has her fair share
of it--no more!--but her friend gets an accolade of a piece with the one
she received that morning by Arthur's Bridge, three weeks since. So his
owner's brain-image says, confirmed by sounds from without. He is
conscious of the absurdity of building so vivid and substantial a
superstructure on so little foundation, and would like to protest
against it.

"Good-morning, Nurse. I'm better. What is it?--beef-tea. Earls' cooks
make capital beef-tea. On the whole I am in favour of Feudalism. Nothing
can be sweeter or neater or completer--or more nourishing--than its
beef-tea. Don't put any salt in till I tell you.... Oh no--_I'm_ not
going to spill it!" This is preliminary; the protest follows. "Who's
talking to my sister under the window?... that's her voice." Of course,
he knew perfectly well all the time.

The nurse listens a moment. "That's her ladyship," says she, mea