CHAPTER VII.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

"How pleasant it is to be acquainted with new and clever
things."--_Aristophanes_.

Marcus certainly carried his head a little higher than usual that
evening; as for Olivia, she trod on air. As she sat at her needlework
later on, waiting until Marcus returned from his second visit to
Galvaston House, her thoughts were busy about the future.

Marcus would soon have a large practice; it was all very well for Aunt
Madge to be sententious, and say that one swallow does not make a
spring; but already the second harbinger of good luck had put in an
appearance.

There was no fear of parting with Martha now; before long Olivia was
building magnificent castles. The house next door to Galvaston House
was to let, it had a garden and a small conservatory, and Marcus had
once remarked that it was just the house for a medical man; the
reception-rooms were good and there was a capital stable.

"Supposing we were ever rich enough to take Kempton Lodge," she said to
herself.

Marcus threw back his head and indulged in a hearty laugh, when he
heard where his wife's imagination had landed her.

"Kempton Lodge--my dear child--why do you not suggest Prince's Gate, or
Belgravia? My own thoughts had not gone further than a new greatcoat
this winter. I am afraid my old one is getting a little seedy." And
at this remark, Olivia's airily constructed fabric dissolved into
nothingness.

To blow bubbles is an enchanting pastime even with grown-up children.
The big bright-coloured bubbles soar into the air and look so beautiful
before they burst. One is gone, but another takes its place, just as
rainbow-tinted, and gorgeous. There are people who blow endless
bubbles until their life's end, who cannot be induced to discontinue
the harmless pursuit.

"Life is so hard and dreary," they say. "The wheels of drudgery are
for ever turning and grinding; let us sit in the sun a little and float
our fairy balls. What if they are dreams and never come to anything;
the dreams and the sunlight have made us happy; there is plenty of time
in which to do our work."

Marcus laughed at his wife's fancies; but he never crushed them
ruthlessly. "Poor little Livy," he thought, "why should she not build
her air castles if they make her happy, and perhaps, after all, who
knows----" but Marcus did not finish his sentence even to himself.

But the next day when he went to Maybrick Villas to fetch his wife
home,