pleasantly--much too pleasantly for a man with a conscience, someone
said later in the afternoon; but that was someone who wanted to talk to
Phyllis himself.

People watched her when she suffered herself to be gradually withdrawn
from the center of the room to a seat that chanced to be vacant, just
behind the open door of the conservatory. Could it be possible, they
asked one another, that she had indeed given his dismissal to Mr.
Holland the previous week? Why, they were chatting together as
pleasantly as they had ever chatted. Had not the people who talked so
glibly of conscience and its mysterious operations spoken a little too
soon? Or had the quarrel been patched up? If so, which of the two had
got rid of the conscience that had brought about the original rupture?

These questions were answered at divers places by divers persons, all
the time that George Holland and Phyllis Ayrton remained side by side
at the entrance to the conservatory, at the further end of which a vocal
quartette party sang delightfully--delightfully; sufficiently loud to
enable all the guests who wanted to talk to do so without inconvenience,
and at the same time not so loud as to become obtrusive. It is so seldom
that a quartette party manage to hit this happy medium, people said.
They generally sing as if they fancy that people come together to hear
them, not remembering that the legitimate object of music at an At Home
is to act as an accompaniment to the conversation.

When Phyllis was leaving the house half an hour later, a man was just
entering the first drawing room--a man with a face burnt to the color of
an old mezzotint.

He looked at her for a moment as he passed her, for her face had
suddenly lighted up, as such a face as hers does upon occasions.

The man could scarcely fail to perceive that she knew his name was
Herbert Courtland.

But then he was accustomed to be recognized by women as well as men in
every part of Europe, since he had returned from New Guinea with the
tail feathers of the meteor-bird, which were now being made into a fan
for Mrs. Linton.

CHAPTER IX.

MY FATHER HAS HIS IDEAS ON WHAT'S CALLED REALISM.

The last rumble of applause had died away at the Parthenon Theater, but
the audience were leaving very slowly; they wished to linger as long
as possible within the atmosphere of the building; though, like the
atmosphere of many sacred places, that of the Parthenon was, just at
that time, a trifle un