playwright is master of, he
looked up and saw the two sisters coming round the corner of the house
from the great kitchen garden, which stretched its grass paths and
tangled flower-masses down the further slope of the hill. The transition
was sharp from Dumas's heated atmosphere of passion and crime to the
quiet English rectory, its rural surroundings, and the figures of the
two Englishwomen advancing towards him.

Catherine was in a loose white dress with a black lace scarf draped
about her head and form. Her look hardly suggested youth, and there was
certainly no touch of age in it. Ripeness, maturity, serenity--these
were the chief ideas which seemed to rise in the mind at sight of her.

'Are you amusing yourself, Mr. Langham?' she said, stopping beside him
and retaining with slight imperceptible force Rose's hand, which
threatened to slip away.

'Very much. I have been skimming through a play, which I hope to see
next week, by way of preparation.'

Rose turned involuntarily. Not wishing to discuss _Marianne_ with either
Catherine or her sister, Langham had just closed the book and was
returning it to his pocket. But she had caught sight of it.

'You are reading _Marianne_,' she exclaimed, the slightest possible
touch of wonder in her tone.

'Yes, it is _Marianne_,' said Langham, surprised in his turn. He had
very old-fashioned notions about the limits of a girl's acquaintance
with the world, knowing nothing, therefore, as may be supposed, about
the modern young woman, and he was a trifle scandalised by Rose's accent
of knowledge.

'I read it last week,' she said carelessly; 'and the Piersons'--turning
to her sister--'have promised to take me to see it next winter if
Desforets comes again, as every one expects.'

'Who wrote it?' asked Catherine innocently. The theatre not only gave
her little pleasure, but wounded in her a hundred deep unconquerable
instincts. But she had long ago given up in despair the hope of
protesting against Rose's dramatic instincts with success.

'Dumas _fils_,' said Langham drily. He was distinctly a good deal
astonished.

Rose looked at him, and something brought a sudden flame into her cheek.

'It is one of the best of his,' she said defiantly. 'I have read a good
many others. Mrs. Pierson lent me a volume. And when I was introduced to
Madame Desforets last week, she agreed with me that _Marianne_ is nearly
the best of all.'

All this, of course, with the delicate nose well