position of the theatre and of those belonging to it. Kendal thought it
proved no more than that an extremely beautiful girl of irreproachable
character, brought prominently before the public in any capacity
whatever, is sure to stir the susceptible English heart, and that Isabel
Bretherton's popularity was not one which would in the long run affect
the stage at all. But he kept his reflections to himself, and in general
talked about her no more than he was forced to do. He had a sort of
chivalrous feeling that those whom the girl had made in any degree her
personal friends ought, as far as possible, to stand between her and this
inquisitive excited public. And it was plain to him that the enormous
social success was not of her seeking, but of her relations.

One afternoon, between six and seven, Kendal was working alone in his
room with the unusual prospect of a clear evening before him. He had
finished a piece of writing, and was standing before the fire deep in
thought over the first paragraphs of his next chapter, when he heard a
knock; the door opened, and Wallace stood on the threshold.

'May I come in? It's a shame to disturb you; but I've really got
something important to talk to you about. I want your advice badly.'

'Oh, come in, by all means. Here's some cold tea; will you have some? or
will you stay and dine? I must dine early to-night for my work. I'll ring
and tell Mason.'

'No, don't; I can't stay. I must be in Kensington at eight.' He threw
himself into Kendal's deep reading-chair, and looked up at his friend
standing silent and expectant on the hearth-rug. 'Do you remember that
play of mine I showed you in the spring?'