summer holiday. But Gilbert Fenton believed implicitly in his own
instinct, and was not to be shaken.

He went back to town by the afternoon express that day, for he dared not
delay his return any longer. He went back regretfully enough to the
dryasdust business life, after spending the greater part of the morning
under the walnut-trees in Captain Sedgewick's garden, playing with Fritz
the Skye terrier, and talking airy nonsense to Marian, while she sat in a
garden-chair hemming silk handkerchiefs for her uncle, and looking
distractingly pretty in a print morning dress with tiny pink rosebuds on
a white ground, and a knot of pink ribbon fastening the dainty collar. He
ventured to talk a little about the future too; painting, with all the
enthusiasm of Claude Melnotte, and a great deal more sincerity, the home
which he meant to create for her.

"You will have to come to town to choose our house, you know, Marian," he
said, after a glowing description of such a villa as never yet existed,
except in the florid imagination of an auctioneer; "I could never venture
upon such an important step without you: apart from all sentimental
considerations, a woman's judgment is indispensable in these matters. The
house might be perfection in every other point, and there might be no
boiler, or no butler's pantry, or no cupboard for brooms on the landing,
or some irremediable omission of that kind. Yes, Marian, your uncle must
bring you to town for a week or so of house-hunting, and soon."

She looked at him with a startled expression.

"Soon!" she repeated.

"Yes, dear, very soon. There is nothing in the world to hinder our