s laughingly declined to make any choice of a stage lover, so
that, up to the present moment, matters are still in such a state of
confusion and uncertainty that they have been unable to name any date
for the production of their play.

It is four o'clock, and they are all standing or sitting in the
library, intent as usual in discussing the difficulty. They are all
talking together, and, in the excitement that prevails, no one hears the
door open, or the footman's calm, introduction of a gentleman, who now
comes leisurely up to where Sir Adrian is standing, leaning over
Florence Delmaine's chair.

He is a tall man of about thirty-five, with a dark face and dark eyes,
and, withal, a slight resemblance to Sir Adrian.

"Ah, Arthur, is it you!" says Sir Adrian, in a surprised tone that has
certainly no cordiality in it, but, just as certainly, the tone is not
repellent.

"Yes," replies the stranger, with a languid smile, and without
confusion. "Yesterday I suddenly recollected the general invitation you
gave me a month ago to come to you at any time that suited me best. This
time suits me, and so I have come."

He still smiles as he says this, and looks expectantly at Sir Adrian,
who, as in duty bound, instantly tells him he is very glad to see him,
and that he is a good fellow to have come without waiting for a more
formal repetition of his invitation. Then he takes him over to old Lady
FitzAlmont, the mother of Lady Gertrude Vining, and introduces him to
her as "my cousin Mr. Dynecourt."

The same ceremony is gone through with some of the others, but, when
he brings him to Mrs. Talbot, that pretty widow interrupts his mode of
introduction.

"Mr. Dynecourt and I are old friends," she says, giving her hand to the
new-comer. Then, turning to her cousin, she adds, "Florence, is it not
a fatality our meeting him so often?"

"Have we met so often?" asks Florence quietly, but with a touch of
_hauteur_ and dislike in her tone. Then she too gives a cold little hand
to Mr. Dynecourt, who lingers over it until she disdainfully draws it
away, after which he turns from her abruptly and devotes himself to
Dora Talbot.

The widow is glad of his attentions. He is handsome and well-bred, and
for the last half hour she has been feeling slightly bored; so eager has
been the discussion about the Marlow matter, that she has been little
sought after by the opposite sex. And now, once again, the subject is
being examined in all its