out some wonderful patent? Or he
discovered a mine? Or oil? Do tell me, Robert!"

"I mustn't, really," cried her brother laughing. "And I must not talk to
you any more. You are much too sharp. I feel a responsibility about it;
and, besides, I must really do some work."

"It Is very unkind of you," said Laura, pouting. "But I must put my
things on, for I go into Birmingham by the 1.20."

"To Birmingham?"

"Yes, I have a hundred things to order. There is everything to be got.
You men forget about these details. Raffles wishes to have the wedding
in little more than a fortnight. Of course it will be very quiet, but
still one needs something."

"So early as that!" said Robert, thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps it is
better so."

"Much better, Robert. Would it not be dreadful if Hector came back first
and there was a scene? If I were once married I should not mind. Why
should I? But of course Raffles knows nothing about him, and it would be
terrible if they came together."

"That must be avoided at any cost."

"Oh, I cannot bear even to think of it. Poor Hector! And yet what could
I do, Robert? You know that it was only a boy and girl affair. And how
could I refuse such an offer as this? It was a duty to my family, was it
not?"

"You were placed in a difficult position--very difficult," her brother
answered. "But all will be right, and I have no doubt Hector will see it
as you do. But does Mr. Spurling know of your engagement?"

"Not a word. He was here yesterday, and talked of Hector, but indeed I
did not know how to tell him. We are to be married by special licence in
Birmingham, so really there is no reason why he should know. But now I
must hurry or I shall miss my train."

When his sister was gone Robert went up to his studio, and having
ground some colours upon his palette he stood for some time, brush and
mahlstick in hand, in front of his big bare canvas. But how profitless
all his work seemed to him now! What object had he in doing it? Was it
to earn money? Money could be had for the asking, or, for that matter,
without the asking. Or was it to produce a thing of beauty? But he had
artistic faults. Raffles Haw had said so, and he knew that he was right.
After all his pains the thing might not please; and with money he could
at all times buy pictures which would please, and which would be things
of beauty. What, then, was the object of his working? He could see none.
He threw down his brush, and, lighting h