he thought of the dreaded interview.
Those garments which she wore with such an appearance of ease and
comfort had been the result of many an hour of anxiety, for how was
she to tell, from her husband's railery, what colors the terrible old
lady in Kensington would probably like? He did not know that every
word he said in joke about his aunt's temper, her peevish ways, the
awful consequences of offending her, and so forth, were like so many
needles stuck into the girl's heart, until she was ready to cry out to
be released from this fearful ordeal. Moreover, as the day came near
what he could not see in her she saw in him. Was she likely to be
reassured when she perceived that her husband, in spite of all his
fun, was really anxious, and when she knew that some blunder on her
part might ruin him? In fact, if he had suspected for a moment that
she was really trembling to think of what might happen, he might have
made some effort to give her courage.

But apparently Sheila was as cool and collected as if she had been
going to see John the Piper. He believed she could have gone to be
presented to the queen without a single tremor of the heart.

Still, he was a man, and therefore bound to assume an air of
patronage. "She won't eat you, really," he said to Sheila as they were
driving in a hansom down Kensington Palace Gardens. "All you have
got to do is to believe in her theories of food. She won't make you
a martyr to them. She measures every half ounce of what she eats, but
she won't starve you; and I am glad to think, Sheila, that you have
brought a remarkably good and sensible appetite with you from the
Lewis. Oh, by the way, take care you say nothing against Marcus
Aurelius."

"I don't know who he was, dear," observed Sheila meekly.

"He was a Roman emperor and a philosopher. I suppose it was because he
was an emperor that he found it easy to be a philosopher. However, my
aunt is nuts on Marcus Aurelius: I beg your pardon, you don't know the
phrase. My aunt makes Marcus Aurelius her Bible, and she is sure to
read you bits from him, which you must believe, you know."

"I will try," said Sheila doubtfully, "but if--"

"Oh, it has nothing to do with religion. I don't think anybody knows
what Marcus Aurelius means, so you may as well believe it. Ingram
swears by him, but he is always full of odd crotchets."

"Does Mr. Ingram believe in Marcus Aurelius?" said Sheila with some
accession of interest.

"Why, he gave my