tinue a--a sort of
mer-pussy to the end of time." Both laugh in a way at the name he
has made for her; then he adds: "Only...."

"Only what?"

"Nothing I could lay hold of."

"I wonder whether you're thinking of the same thing as I am?" Very
singularly, it does not seem necessary to elucidate the point. They
merely look at each other, and continue looking as Fenwick says:

"They _are_ a funny couple, if that's it!"

"They certainly _are_," she replies. "But I _have_ thought so, for
all that!" And then both look at the fire as before, this being, of
course, in the depth of winter. Rosalind speaks next.

"There's no doubt about _him_, of course! But the chick would have
told me at once if...."

"If there had been anything to tell. No doubt she would."

"Of course, it's absurd to suppose he could see so much of her as he
does, and not...."

"Perfectly absurd! But then, you know, that young fiddler was very
bad, indeed, about the chick until he made her acquaintance."

"So he was." Thoughtfully, as one who weighs.

"The kitten met him with a sort of stony geniality that would have
knocked the heart out of a Romeo. If Juliet had known the method,
she could have nipped Shakespeare in the bud."

"She _didn't_ want to. Sally _did_."

"But then Shakespeare might have gone on and written a dry respectable
story--not a love-story; an esteem story--about how Juliet took an
interest in Romeo's welfare, and Romeo posted her letters for her, and
presented her with a photograph album, and so on. And how the families
left cards."

"But it isn't exactly stony geniality. It's another method altogether
with the doctor--a method the child's invented for herself."

Fenwick repeats, "A method she's invented for herself. Exactly. Well,
we shall have her back to-morrow. What time does she come?" And then
her mother says, interrupting the conversation: "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"I thought I heard the gate go."

"Not at this time of night." But Fenwick is wrong, for in a moment
comes an imperious peal at the bell. A pair of boots, manifestly on
a telegraph-boy's cold feet, play a devil's tattoo on the sheltered
doorstep. They have been inaudible till now, as the snow is on the
ground again at Moira Villas. In three minutes the boots are released,
and they and their wearer depart, callously uninterested in the
contents of the telegram they have brought. If we were a telegraph-boy,
we should always be yearning to know