ued.
And, indeed, though the two made no movement, and for a while said
nothing, there was an air of increased intimacy, if it were only in
their silence, when the door had closed on the girl and left them
together. Presently Lady Garnett began holding up her little glass
of crystal maraschino that vied in the light of the candelabra with
the diamonds on her fingers.

"I had a conversation with that wearisome young man Charles
Sylvester at Lucerne, Philip; he tried to sound me as to Mary's
prospects and the state of her affections."

Rainham looked up with quiet surprise.

"Do you mean to say----?" he queried.

"It is very obvious," she answered quickly; "I saw it long ago. But
don't imagine that he got much out of me. I was as deep as a well.
But what do you think of it?"

"I hope they will be happy," he answered absently. She arched her
expressive brows, and he coloured, recollected himself. "I beg your
pardon," he said hastily; "I confess I was thinking of something
else. You were talking of Mary; why should it not do? Does she care
about him?"

His companion laughed, and her laugh had more than its wonted
suggestion of irony.

"My dear Philip, for a clever man you can be singularly dense! Care
for him! of course she does not."

"She might do worse," he said; "Sylvester is not very bright, but he
works hard, and will succeed after a fashion. His limitations
dovetail conveniently with his capacities. What do you intend to
do?"

"Do I ever interfere in these things? My dear, you are remarkably
dull to-night. I never make marriages, nor prevent them. With all my
faults, match-making is not one of them. I think too ill of life to
try and arrange it. You must admit," she added, "that, long as I
have known you, I have never tried to marry you?"

"Ah, that would have been too fatuous!" he remarked lightly.

They were both silent for a while, regarding each other
disinterestedly; they appeared to be following a train of thought
which led no whither; presently Lady Garnett asked:

"Are you going abroad this year?"

"Yes," he said, "as soon as I can--about the middle of October; to
Mentone or Bordighera, I suppose."

"Do you find them interesting? Do they do you much good?"

He smiled rather listlessly, ignoring her second question.

"I confess," he said, "it becomes rather a bore. But, I suppose, at
my time of life one finds nothing very interesting. The mere act of
living becomes rather a bore after a