going to elbow myself about and be
squashed flat for their pleasure. It is a dozen times worse to be in a
mob at home, for one has to find chairs for all the ladies. Pah!'

'That is very lazy!' said the wife. 'You will be sorry to have missed it
when it is too late, and your home people will be vexed.'

'Who cares? My father does not, and the others take no pains not to vex
us.'

'O, Arthur! you know it makes it worse if you always come to me when
they want you. I could wait very well. Only one day above all you must
come,' said she, with lowered voice, in his ear.

'What's that?'

John could not see how, instead of speaking, she guided her husband's
hand to her wedding-ring. His reply transpired--'I'll not fail. Which
day is it?'

'Friday week. I hope you will be able!'

'I'll manage it. Why, it will be your birthday, too!'

'Yes, I shall be so glad to be seventeen. I shall feel as if baby would
respect me more. Oh! I am glad you can come, but you must be good, and
go to the soiree. I do think it would not be right always to leave them
when they want you. Tell him so, please, Mr. Martindale.'

John did so, but Arthur made no promises, and even when the day came,
they were uncertain whether they might think of him at the party, or as
smoking cigars at home.

CHAPTER 5

Her scourge is felt, unseen, unheard,
Where, though aloud the laughter swells,
Her secret in the bosom dwells,
There is a sadness in the strain
As from a heart o'ercharged with pain.
--The Baptistery

Theodora had come to London, hating the idea of gaieties, liking nothing
but the early service and chemical lectures, and shrinking from the
meeting with her former friend. She enjoyed only the prospect of the
comfort her society would afford her brother, depressed by attendance on
a nervous wife, in an unsatisfactory home.

No Arthur met them at the station: he had left a message that he was
taking Mrs. Martindale to the Isle of Wight, and should return early on
Tuesday.

Theodora stayed at home the whole of that day, but in vain. She was
busied in sending out cards to canvass for her dumb boy's admission into
an asylum, when a message came up to her sitting-room. She started. Was
it Arthur? No; Mrs. Finch was in the drawing-room; and at that moment
a light step was on the stairs, and a flutter of gay ribbons advanced.
'Ha! Theodora! I knew how to track you. The old place! De