, which will be recorded presently, he had mainly to thank his
friend's book.

He had met an old acquaintance of his, a certain young Herbert
Featherstone, who had on any previous chance encounter seemed
affected by a kind of trance, during which his eyes lost all power of
vision, but was now completely recovered, so much so indeed as to
greet Mark with a quite unexpected warmth.

Was it true that he had written this new book? What was its
name--'Delusion' or something? Fellows were saying he had; hadn't read
it himself; his mother and sister had; said it was a devilish good
book, too. Where was he hanging out now, and what was he doing on the
10th? Could he come to a little dance his people had that night? Very
well, then, he should have a card.

Mark was slightly inclined to let the other understand that he knew
the worth of this resuscitated friendliness, but he refrained. He knew
of the Featherstones as wealthy people, with the reputation of giving
the pleasantest entertainments in London. He had his way to make in
the world, and could not afford, he thought, to neglect these
opportunities. So he went to the dance and, as he happened to dance
well, enjoyed himself, in spite of the fact that two of his partners
had read 'Illusion,' and knew him as the author of it. They were both
pretty and charming girls, but Mark did not enjoy either of those
particular valses. In the course of the evening he had a brief
conversation with his hostess, and was fortunate enough to produce a
favourable impression. Mrs. Featherstone was literary herself, as a
reputedly strong-minded lady who had once written two particularly
weak-minded novels would necessarily be. She liked to have a few
rising young literary men in her train, with whom she might discuss
subjects loftier than ordinary society cares to grasp; but she was
careful at the same time that her daughter should not share too
frequently in these intellectual privileges, for Gilda Featherstone
was very handsome, and literary men are as impressionable as other
people.

Mark called one Saturday afternoon at the Featherstones' house in
Grosvenor Place, as he had been expressly invited to do on the
occasion of the dance, and found Mrs. Featherstone at home. It was not
her regular day, and she received him alone, though Mark heard voices
and laughter now and then from behind the hangings which concealed
the end room of the long suite.

'And now let us talk about your delightfu