vishing. These
things she knew, and they were enough. She went upon the top of an
omnibus to the City street where was her rendezvous, but in her gala
suit, her gala hat, and the furs which had nearly broken Mrs. Amber,
she felt immensely superior to such humble mode of travel.

Before she alighted from the omnibus she saw, from her altitude,
Osborn striding along the street. He was not alone; Desmond Rokeby was
with him, listening to something which Osborn was telling him eagerly.
Although Marie could not hear the words, she leaned over and looked
down with delight upon her man whom she had chosen, so tall and smart,
and fine, and young. She loved the turn of his head, the swing of his
shoulders, his quick tread and eager look, as if all life were
unrolling before him like a map, and he could choose at his lordly
will any one of the thousand roads upon it. Osborn was speaking of his
wife; he was telling Rokeby about the splendour of the game he had
learned to play. He was trying to tell Rokeby something of the wonders
and beauties of one woman's mind and heart; and he was telling him,
too, of smaller things, of the comforts and attractions of home, of
the little kingdom behind a shut front door, of the angel's food an
angel cooked, and all her benevolences and graces and mercies.

As he spoke, diffidently but glowingly, of these things, with his
words rushing out, or halting over something that was not to be told,
his attention was called to the omnibus top on which Marie sat; he did
not know what called him, only that he was called, and there she was,
leaning over, smiling between the soft rim of her furs and the
down-drawn brim of her hat, with her big muff held up against her
breast, cuddlingly. Osborn gasped and stood hat in hand, with his face
turned upwards.

"Have you seen a vision, man?" asked Rokeby.

"There's Marie," Osborn answered.

Marie descended daintily and crossed the street to the two men. Her
hair gleamed and her feet were so light that she seemed to dance like
a shaft of sunshine. At the moment she was a queen, as every pretty
girl is at moments, with two subjects ready to obey.

Rokeby greeted her smilingly with admiration. "Mrs. Kerr, Osborn talks
of no one but you all day. He was in the midst of a song like
Solomon's, only modernised, when that chariot of yours bore down upon
him and cut it short. How are you? But I needn't ask. And when may I
call?"

"Oh, sometime, old man! We'll fix a