'Then I'll certainly come, and do my worshipping before the crowd
collects,' said Kendal, adding, as he half-curiously shifted his
eye-glass so as to take in Wallace's bronzed, alert countenance, 'How did
you happen to know her?'

'Rutherford introduced me. He's an old friend of mine.'

'Well,' said Kendal, moving off, 'Friday, then. I shall be very glad to
see Mrs. Stuart; it's ages since I saw her last.'

The American nodded cordially to him, and walked away. He was one of
those pleasant, ubiquitous people who know every one and find time for
everything--a well-known journalist, something of an artist, and still
more of a man of the world, who went through his London season with some
outward grumbling, but with a real inward zest such as few popular
diners-out are blessed with. That he should have attached himself to the
latest star was natural enough. He was the most discreet and profitable
of cicerones, with a real talent for making himself useful to nice
people. His friendship for Miss Bretherton gave her a certain stamp in
Kendal's eyes, for Wallace had a fastidious taste in personalities and
seldom made a mistake.

Kendal himself walked home, busy with very different thoughts, and was
soon established at his writing-table in his high chambers overlooking an
inner court of the Temple. It was a bright afternoon; the spring sunshine
on the red roofs opposite was clear and gay; the old chimney-stacks,
towering into the pale blue sky, threw sharp shadows on the rich red and
orange surface of the tiles. Below, the court was half in shadow, and
utterly quiet and deserted. To the left there was a gleam of green,