least, if he could not give them up; and she would have restored him his
inheritance, would have dealt with him not only justly, but generously. He
had chosen; he had deliberately chosen. Well, now then it was for her--as
she had said to old Lady Frensham--it was for her to reply, but not in
words only.

She fell back upon the thought of Arthur, Arthur, her darling; so manly,
and yet so docile; so willing to be guided! Where was he, that she might
praise him for his speech? She turned, searching the dark doorway with her
eyes. But there was no Arthur, only the white head and smiling countenance
of her old friend, Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was beckoning to her. She
hurriedly bade Marcia, who had just returned to the Gallery, to keep her
seat for her, and went out into the corridor to speak to him.

"Well, not bad, was it? These youngsters have got the trick! I thought it
capital. But I dare say you'll have all sorts of fault to find, you most
exacting of women!"

"No, no; it was good," she said, eagerly. "And he's improving fast."

"Well then"--the wise old eyes beside her laughed kindly into hers--"be
content, and don't take Coryston's escapades too hardly!"

She drew back, and her long face and haughty mouth stiffened in the way he
knew.

"Are you coming to see me on Sunday?" she said, quietly.

He took his snubbing without resentment.