novelist had already heard as affianced to his friend.

Whilst they stood conversing, there approached two ladies,
evidently mother and daughter, whose attendant was another of
Reardon's acquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped
briskly forward and welcomed the returned wanderer.

'Let me introduce you,' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your
fame has made them anxious to know you.'

Reardon found himself in a position of which the novelty was
embarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five people
grouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a
man of importance; for though, strictly speaking, he had no
'fame' at all, these persons had kept up with the progress of his
small repute, and were all distinctly glad to number among their
acquaintances an unmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh
from Italy and Greece. Mrs Yule, a lady rather too pretentious in
her tone to be attractive to a man of Reardon's refinement,
hastened to assure him how well his books were known in her
house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don't care
much.' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seemingly
reserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest
in the author. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely
fell in love with Miss Yule at first sight, and there was an end
of the matter.

A day or two later he made a call at their house, in the region
of Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily than
handsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be