tion of coming then."

"What's the matter? You look out of sorts."

"I don't feel in very good spirits. By the by, I heard from the
publishers yesterday. Here's the note."

It simply stated that Messrs. So-and-so had given their best attention
to the play of "Stilicho," which Mr. Casti had been so good as to
submit to them, and regretted their inability to make any proposal for
its publication, seeing that its subject was hardly likely to excite
popular interest. They thanked the author for offering it to them, and
begged to return the MS.

"Well, it's a disappointment," said Waymark, "but we must try again. I
myself am so hardened to this kind of thing that I fear you will think
me unsympathetic. It's like having a tooth out. You never quite get
used to it, but you learn after two or three experiments to gauge the
moment's torture at its true value. Re-direct your parcel, and fresh
hope beats out the old discouragement."

"It wasn't altogether that which was making me feel restless and
depressed," Casti said, when they had left the house and were walking
along. "I suppose I'm not quite right in health just at present. I seem
to have lost my natural good spirits of late; the worst of it is, I
can't settle to my day's work as I used to. In fact, I have just been
applying for a new place, that of dispenser at the All Saints'
Hospital. If I get it, it would make my life a good deal more
independent. I should live in lodgings of my own, and have much more
time to myself."

Waymark encouraged the idea strongly. But his companion could not be
roused to the wonted cheerfulness. After a long silence, he all at once
put a strange question, and in an abashed way.

"Waymark, have you ever been in love?"

Osmond laughed, and looked at his friend curiously.

"Many thousand times," was his reply.

"No, but seriously," urged Julian.

"With desperate seriousness for two or three days at a time. Never
longer."

"Well now, answer me in all earnestness. Do you believe it possible to
love a woman whom in almost every respect you regard as your inferior,
who you know can't understand your thoughts and aspirations, who has no
interest in anything above daily needs?"

"Impossible to say. Is she good-looking?"

"Suppose she is not; yet not altogether plain."

"Then does she love you?"

Julian reddened at the direct application.

"Suppose she seems to."

"Seems to, eh?--On the whole, I should say that I couldn't declare