stian, whose forehead gleamed
with moisture.

'No, don't say that. I am really so sorry! What an odd mistake!'

'And I have hoped in vain--since you were free----?'

'Oh, you mustn't say such things! I shall never dream of marrying
again--never!'

There was a matter-of-fact vigour in the assertion which proved that
Mrs. Palmer spoke her genuine thought. The tone could not be
interpreted as devotion to her husband's memory; it meant, plainly and
simply, that she had had enough of marriage, and delighted in her
freedom.

Christian could not say another word. Disillusion was complete. The
voice, the face, were those of as unspiritual a woman as he could
easily have met with, and his life's story was that of a fool.

He took his hat, held out his hand, with 'Good-bye, Mrs. Palmer.' The
cold politeness left her no choice but again to look offended, and with
merely a motion of the head she replied, 'Good-bye, Mr. Moxey.'

And therewith permitted him to leave the house.

CHAPTER II

On calling at Earwaker's chambers one February evening, Malkin became
aware, from the very threshold of the outer door, that the domicile was
not as he had known it. With the familiar fragrance of Earwaker's
special 'mixture' blended a suggestion of new upholstery. The little
vestibule had somehow put off its dinginess, and an unwontedly
brilliant light from the sitting-room revealed changes of the interior
which the visitor remarked with frank astonishment.

'What the deuce! Has it happened at last? Are you going to be married?'
he cried, staring about him at unrecognised chairs, tables, and
bookcases, at whitened ceiling and pleasantly papered walls, at
pictures and ornaments which he knew not.

The journalist shook his head, and smiled contentedly.

'An idea that came to me all at once. My editorship seemed to inspire
it.'

After a year of waiting upon Providence, Earwaker had received the
offer of a substantial appointment much more to his taste than those he
had previously held. He was now literary editor of a weekly review
which made no kind of appeal to the untaught multitude.

'I have decided to dwell here for the rest of my life,' he added,
looking round the walls. 'One must have a homestead, and this shall be
mine; here I have set up my penates. It's a portion of space, you know;
and what more can be said of Longleat or Chatsworth? A house I shall
never want, because I shall never have a wife. And on the whole I
p