in the smallest
degree glad to see me again?"

"In a degree,--yes." Raising to his, two eyes, full of something more
than common gladness.

"Really?"

"Really."

He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealing
expression, and regards him calmly in return.

"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long I
have been away from you, and what a journey I have come."

"True; you must be hungry." With willful ignorance of his meaning.

"I am not." Indignantly. "But I think you might--after three weary
months, that to me, at least, were twelve--you might----"

"You want me to--kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising
blush. "Well, I will, then."

Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes
him utterly by surprise.

"Cecil," whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: if
we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I
hold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?"

"You know how glad I shall be."

"Well, I hope now," says Cecil, "you intend to reform, and give up
traveling aimlessly all over the unknown world at stated intervals. I
hope for the future you mean staying at home like a respectable
Christian."

"If I had a home. You can't call one's club a home, can you? I would
stay anywhere,--with you."

"I could not possibly undertake such a responsibility. Still, I should
like you to remain in London, where I could look after you a little bit
now and then, and keep you in order. I adore keeping people in order. I
am thrown away," says Cecil, shaking her flaxen head sadly. "I know I
was born to rule."

"You do a great deal of it even in your own limited sphere, don't you?"
says her husband, laughing. "I know at least one unfortunate individual
who is completely under your control."

"No. I am dreadfully cramped. But come; in spite of all the joy I
naturally feel at your safe return, I find my appetite unimpaired.
Luncheon is ready. Follow me, my friend. I pine for a cutlet."

They eat their cutlets _tete-a-tete_, and with evident
appreciation of their merits; the servants regarding the performance
with intense though silent admiration. In their opinion (and who shall
dispute the accuracy of a servant's opinion?), this is the beginning of
the end.

When luncheon is over, Lady Stafford rises.

"I am going for my d