"Would it not look less formal for you to ask him, papa? You see, it is
once or twice that we have asked him to dine with us without giving him
proper notice--"

"Oh, that is nothing--nothing at all. A bachelor with an evening
disengaged is glad enough to fill it up anyhow. Well, if you would
rather not write, Natalie, I will ask him myself."

"Thank you, papa," said she, apparently much relieved, and therewith she
went back to her seat, and her father turned to his newspaper.

The day passed, and the evening came. As six o'clock was striking,
George Brand presented himself at the little door in Lisle street, Soho,
and was admitted. Lind had already assured him that, as far as England
was concerned, no idle mummeries were associated with the ceremony of
initiation; to which Brand had calmly replied, that if mummeries were
considered necessary, he was as ready as any one to do his part of the
business. Only he added that he thought the unknown powers had acted
wisely--so far as England was concerned--in discarding such things.

When he entered the room, his first glance round was reassuring. There
were six persons present besides Lind, and they did not at all suggest
the typical Leicester Square foreigner. On the contrary, he guessed that
four out of the six were either English or Irish; and two of them he
recognized, though they were unknown to him personally. The one was a
Home Rule M.P., ferocious enough in the House of Commons, but celebrated
as the most brilliant, and amiable, and fascinating of diners-out; the
other was an Oxford don, of large fortune and wildly Radical views, who
wrote a good deal in the papers. There was a murmur of conversation