noon, when I knew, as a matter of fact, that my chief
and his wife were attending a function in Sydney. It was a winter's
day, very blusterous and wet. The servant having told me her mistress
was out, and Miss Mabel in, was about to lead me through the long,
wide hall to the drawing-room, which opened through a conservatory
upon a rear verandah, when some one called her, and I assured her I
could find my own way. So the smiling maid (who doubtless knew my
secret) left me, and I leisurely disposed of coat and umbrella, and
walked through the house. The shadowy drawing-room was empty, but, as
I entered it, these words, spoken in Mabel's voice, reached me from
the conservatory beyond:

'My dear Hester, how perfectly absurd. A little unknown reporter boy,
picked up by father, probably out of charity! And, besides, you know I
should always be true to Tommy, however long he is away. Why, I often
mention my reporter boy to Tommy in writing. And he is delicious, you
know; he really is. I believe you're jealous. He is a pretty boy, I
know. But you'd hardly credit how sweetly he-- Well, romances, you
know. He really is too killingly sweet when he makes love-- Oh, with
the most knightly respect, my dear! Very likely he will come in this
afternoon, and you shall hear for yourself. You shall sit out here,
and I'll keep him in the drawing-room. Then you'll see how well in
hand he is.'

It was probably contemptible of me not to have coughed, or blown my
nose, or something, in the first ten seconds. But the whole speech did
not occupy very many seconds in the making, and was half finished
before I realised, with a stunning shock, what it meant. It went on
after the last words I have written here, but at that point I retired,
backward, into the hall to collect myself, as they say. I had various
brilliant ideas in the few seconds given to this process. I saw
myself, pitiless but full of dignity, inflicting scathing punishment
of various kinds, and piling blazing coals of fire upon Mabel's pretty
head. I thought, too, of merely disappearing, and leaving conscience
to make martyrdom of my fair lady's life. But perhaps I doubted the
inquisitorial capacity of her conscience. At all events, in the end, I
rattled the drawing-room door-handle vigorously, and re-entered with a
portentous clearing of the throat. There was a flutter and patter in
the conservatory, and then the hitherto adored one came in to me, an
open book in her hand, and witc