"Tea, my lady!"

"Very well. Tell Lady Caroline---- Oh, here you are! I was just sending to tell you that tea was ready. I saw you come in from your ride before the curtains were drawn."

"Did you? Then you must have seen a pretty draggletailed spectacle. I've caked my habit with mud and torn it into shreds, and generally distinguished myself."

"Did Mr. Biscoe blush?"

"Not a bit of it. Mr. Biscoe's a good specimen of a hard-riding parson, and seemed to like me the better the muddier and more torn I became. By the way, his wife is coming to dinner, isn't she? so I must drop my flirtation with the rector, and be on my best behaviour."

"Caroline, you are too absurd; the idea of flirting with a man like that!"

"Well, then, why don't you provide some one better for me? I declare, Margaret, you are ignorant of the simplest duties of hospitality! I can't flirt with West, because he's my brother, for one reason, and because you mightn't like it, perhaps, and because I mightn't care about it myself much. And there's no one else in the house who---- Oh, by the way, I'll speak about that just now--who else is coming to dinner?"

"Some people from the barracks--Colonel Tapp, and Mr. Frampton, the man who hunted through all those papers the other day to find the paragraph you asked him about, don't you know; a Mr. Boyd, a good-looking fair-haired boy, with an eyeglass, one of the Ross-shire Boyds, who is reading somewhere in the neighbourhood with a tutor; the Biscoes, the Porters--people who live at those iron gates with the griffins which I showed you; and--I don't know--two or three others."

"Oh, heavens, what a cheerful prospect! I hate the army, and I detest good-looking boys with eyeglasses; and I've been all day with Mr. Biscoe, and I don't know the griffin people, nor the two or three others. Look here, Margaret, why don't you ask Mr. Joyce to dinner?"

"Mr. Joyce? I don't know---- Good heavens, Caroline, you don't mean Lord Hetherington's secretary?"

"I do indeed, Margaret--why shouldn't I? He is quite nice and gentlemanly, and has charming eyes."

"Caroline, I wonder at your talking such nonsense. You ought to know me sufficiently----"

"And you ought to know me sufficiently to understand there's nothing on earth I detest like being bored. I shall be bored out of my life by any of the people you have mentioned, while I'm sure I should find some amusement in Mr. Joyce."

"You might probably find a great deal of amusement in Norton, the steward, or in William, my footman; but you would scarcely wish me to ask them to dinner?"

"I think not--not in William, at all events. There is a dull decorum about Mr. Norton which one might find some fun in bearing----"

"Caroline, be quiet; you are impayable.Are you really serious in what you say about Mr. Joyce?"

"Perfectly--why not? I had some talk with him in the library the other day, and found him most agreeable."

"Well, then, I will send and say we expect him; will that satisfy you?

"No, certainly not! Seriously, Margaret, for one minute. You know that I was only in fun, and that it cannot matter one atom to me whether this young man is asked to join your party or not. Only, if you do ask him, don't send. You know the sort of message which the footman would deliver, no matter what formula had been intrusted to him; and I should be very sorry to think that Mr. Joyce, or any other gentleman, should be caused a mortification through any folly of mine."

"Perhaps you think I ought to go to him and offer him a verbal invitation?"

"Certainly, if you want him at all--I mean, if you intend asking him to dinner. You'll be sure to find him in the library. Now, I'm dying to get rid of this soaked habit and this clinging skirt! So I'm off to dress."

And Lady Caroline Mansergh gave her sister-in-law a short nod, and left the room.

Left alone, Lady Hetherington took a few minutes to recover herself. Her sister-in-law Caroline had always been a spoiled child, and accustomed to have her own way in the old home, in her own house when she married Mr. Mansergh--the richest, idlest, kindest old gentleman that ever slept in St. Stephen's first and in Glasnevin Cemetery scarcely more soundly afterwards--and generally everywhere since she had lost him. But she had been always remarkable for particularly sound sense, and had a manner of treating objectionably pushing people which succeeded in keeping them at a distance better even than the frigid hauteur which Lady Hetherington indulged in. The countess knew this, and, acknowledging it in her inmost heart, felt that she could make no great mistake in acceding to her sister-in-law's wishes. Moreover, she reflected, after all it was a mere small country-house dinner that day; there was no one expected about whose opinion she particularly cared; and as the man was domiciled in the house, was useful to Lord Hetherington, and was presentable, it was only right to show him some civility.

So, after leaving the drawing-room on her way to dress for dinner, Lady Hetherington crossed the hall to the library, and at the far end of the room saw Mr. Joyce at work, under a shaded lamp. She went straight up to him, and was somewhat amused at finding that he, either not hearing her entrance, or imagining that it was merely some servant with a message, never raised his head, but continued grinding away at his manuscript.

"Mr. Joyce!" said her ladyship, slightly bending forward.

"Hey?" replied the scribe, in whose ear the tones, always haughty and imperious, however she might try to soften them, rang like a trumpet-call. "I beg your pardon, Lady Hetherington," he added, rising from his seat; "I had no idea you were in the room."

"Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Joyce; I only looked in to say that we have a few friends coming to dinner tonight, and it will afford Lord Hetherington and myself much pleasure if you will join us."

"I shall be most happy," said Mr. Joyce.

And then Lady Hetherington returned his bow, and he preceded her down the room, and opened the door to let her pass.

"As if he'd been a squire of dames from his cradle," said her ladyship to herself. "The man has good hands, I noticed, and there was no awkwardness about him."

"What does this mean?" said Walter Joyce, when he reached his own room and was dressing for dinner. "These people have been more civil than I could have expected them to be to a man in my position, and Lord Hetherington especially has been kindness itself; but they have always treated me as what I am--'his lordship's secretary.' Whence this new recognition? One comfort is that, thanks to old Jack Byrne's generosity, I can make a decent appearance at their table. I laughed when he insisted on providing me with dress-clothes, but he knew better. 'They can't do you any harm, my boy,' I recollect his saying, 'and they may do you some good;' and now I see how right he was. Fancy my going into society, and beginning at this phase of it I wonder whether Marian would be pleased? I wonder----"

And he sat down on the edge of his bed and fell into a dreamy abstracted state; the effect caused by Marian's last long letter was upon him yet. He had answered it strongly--far more strongly than he had ever written to her before--pointing out that, at the outset, they had never imagined that life's path was to be made smooth and easy to them; they had always known that they would have to struggle; and that it was specially unlike her to fold her hands and beg for the unattainable, simply because she saw it in the possession of other people. "She dared not tell him how little hope for the future she had." That was a bad sign indeed. In their last parting walk round the garden of the old schoolhouse at Helmingham she had hinted something of this, and he thought he had silenced her on the point; but her want of hope, her abnegation of interest, was now much more pronounced; and against such a feeling he inveighed with all the strength and power of his honest soul. If she gave in, what was to become of him, whose present discomforts were only made bearable by anticipation of the time when he would have her to share his lot?

"And after all, Marian," he had said in conclusion, "what does it all mean? This money for which you wish so much--I find the word studding every few lines of your letter--this splendour, luxury, comfort--call it by what name you will--what does it all mean?--who benefits by it? Not the old gentleman who has passed his life in slaving for the acquisition of wealth! As I understand from you, his wife is dead, and his son almost estranged from him. Is this the end of it? If you could see his inmost heart, is he not pining for the woman who stood by his side during the conflict, and does he not feel the triumph empty and hollow without her to share it with him? Would he not sooner have his son's love and trust and confidence than the conservatory and the carriages and the splendour on which you dwell so rapturously? If you could know all, you would learn that the happiest time of his life was when he was striving in company with her he loved, and that the end now attained, however grand it may be, however above his original anticipations, is but poor and vain now she is not there to share it with him. Oh, Marian, my heart's darling, think of this, and be assured of its truth! So long as we love each other, so long as the sincerity of that love gives us confidence in each other, all will be well, and it will be impossible to shut out hope. It is only when a shadow crosses that love--a catastrophe which seems impossible, but which we should pray God to avert--that hope can in the smallest degree diminish. Marian, my love, my life, think of this as I place it before you! We are both young, both gifted with health and strength and powers of endurance. If we fight the battle side by side, if we are not led away by envy and induced to fix the standard of our desires too high, we shall, we must succeed in attaining what we have so often hopefully discussed--the happiness of being all in all to each other, and leading our lives together, 'for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.' I confess I can imagine no greater bliss--can you?"

He had had no answer to this letter, but that had not troubled him much. He knew that Marian was not fond of correspondence, that in her last letter she had given a full account of her new life, and that she could have but little to say; and he was further aware that a certain feeling of pride would prevent her from too readily indorsing his comments on her views. That she agreed with those comments, or that they would commend themselves to her natural sound sense on reflection, he had no doubt; and he was content to await calmly the issue of events.

The party assembled were waiting the announcement of dinner in the library, and when Joyce entered the room Lord Hetherington left the rug where he had been standing with two other gentlemen, and, advancing towards his secretary, took his hand and said--

"I am glad her ladyship has persuaded you to come out of seclusion, Mr. Joyce. Too much--what is it?--books, and work, and that kind of thing, is--is--the deuce, in point of fact!" And then his lordship went back to the rug, and Joyce having received a sufficiently distant bow from Lady Hetherington, retreated into a darkish corner of the room, into which the flickering firelight did not penetrate, and glanced around him.

Lady Hetherington looked splendidly handsome, he thought. She was dressed in maroon-coloured velvet, the hues of which lit up wonderfully in the firelight, and showed her classically shaped head and head-dress of velvet and black lace. Joyce had read much of Juno-looking women, but he had never realised the idea until he gazed upon that calm, majestic, imperious face, so clearly cold in outline, those large, solemnly radiant eyes, that splendidly moulded figure. The man who was bending over her chair as he addressed her--not deferentially, as Joyce felt that (not from her rank, but rather her splendid beauty) she should be addressed; on the contrary, rather flippantly--had a palpable curly wig, shaved cheeks, waxed moustache, and small white hands, which he rubbed gently together in front of him. He was Colonel Tapp, a Crimean hero, a very Paladin in war, but who had been worn by time, not into slovenry, but into coxcombry. Mr. Biscoe, the rector of the parish--a big, broad-shouldered, bull-headed man, with clean-cut features, wholesome complexion, and breezy whiskers: excellent parson as well as good cross-country man, and as kind of heart as keen at sport--stood by her ladyship's side, and threw an occasional remark into the conversation. Joyce could not see Lady Caroline Mansergh, but he heard her voice coming from a recess in the far side of the fireplace, and mingled with its bright, ringing Irish accent came the deep growling bass of Captain Frampton, adjutant of the depot battalion, and a noted amateur singer. The two gentlemen chatting with Lord Hetherington on the rug were magnates of the neighbourhood, representatives of county families centuries old. Mr. Boyd, a very good-looking young gentleman, with crisp wavy hair and pink-and-white complexion, was staring hard at nothing through his eyeglass, and wondering whether he could fasten one of his studs, which had come undone, without any one noticing him; and Mr. Biscoe was in conversation with a foxy-looking gentleman with sunken eyes, sharp nose, and keen, gleaming teeth, in whom Joyce recognised Mr. Gould, Lord Hetherington's London agent, who was in the habit of frequently running down on business matters, and whose room was always kept ready for him.

Dinner announced and general movement of the company. At the table Joyce found himself seated by Lady Caroline Mansergh, her neighbour on the other side being Captain Frampton. After bowing and smiling at M............