rofound pity for him. There was no need of that. Berrand
was one of those strange men who are happy in the contemplation of
misery.

While Berrand was staying with the Sirretts, Mrs. Ardagh came to them on
a visit. She was now in very poor health, and her mind was greatly set,
in consequence, on that other world of which the healthy scarcely think,
unless they wake at night or lose a near relation unexpectedly. Mr.
Berrand immediately horrified her. Of course he did not speak of
"William Foster." "William Foster's" existence in the house was a
secret. But he freely aired his sentiments on all other subjects, and
each sentiment went like a sword through Mrs. Ardagh's soul.

"How can Mark make a friend of such a man," she said to Catherine. "Like
your father, he has no religious belief. He worships art instead of God.
He loves, he positively loves, the evil of the world. Such men are a
curse. They go to people hell."

Her feverish eyes glowed with fanaticism.

"Oh, mother!" said Catherine, thinking of "William Foster."

"They do not care to do good, they do not fear to do harm," continued
Mrs. Ardagh. "Why are they not cut off?"

She made her daughter kneel down with her and pray against such men.

Then they went down to dinner, and dined with "William Foster."

Catherine felt like one in a fever. She knew that her mother had an
exaggerated mind. Nevertheless, she was deeply moved by it, recognising
that it exaggerated truth, not a lie.

At dinner Mrs. Ardagh, by some ill-chance, was led to mention "William
Foster's" book. Mark raised gay eyebrows at Berrand and Catherine grew
hot. For Mrs. Ardagh denounced the author as she had denounced him in
London, but with more excitement.

"I trust," she said, "that he will never live to write another."

Catherine felt as if a knife were thrust into her breast, and even Mark
started slightly and looked almost uneasy, as if he fancied that the
force of Mrs. Ardagh's desire might accomplish its fulfilment. Only
Berrand was undismayed. There was a devil of mischief in him. His eyes
of a toad gleamed as he said, turning to Mrs. Ardagh,

"I happen to know that 'William Foster' is writing another book at this
very time."

Catherine bent her eyes on her plate. She was tingling with nervous
excitement.

"Do you know him, then?" said Mrs. Ardagh, in her fervid, and yet
dreary, voice.

"Slightly."

"Then tell him of the dreadful harm he has done."

"What harm?"

Mrs.