the egg-shell still adhered. Otherwise he gave David a not unfriendly
kick in passing, and called him "youngster." That was about all.

When Oliver disappeared from the life of the Gardens we had lofted
him out of the story, and did very well without him, extending our
operations to the mainland, where they were on so vast a scale that we
were rapidly depopulating the earth. And then said David one day,

"Shall we let Barbara in?"

We had occasionally considered the giving of Bailey's place to some
other child of the Gardens, divers of David's year having sought
election, even with bribes; but Barbara was new to me.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She's my sister."

You may imagine how I gaped.

"She hasn't come yet," David said lightly, "but she's coming."

I was shocked, not perhaps so much shocked as disillusioned, for though
I had always suspicioned Mary A---- as one who harboured the craziest
ambitions when she looked most humble, of such presumption as this I had
never thought her capable.

I wandered across the Broad Walk to have a look at Irene, and she was
wearing an unmistakable air. It set me reflecting about Mary's
husband and his manner the last time we met, for though I have had no
opportunity to say so, we still meet now and again, and he has even
dined with me at the club. On these occasions the subject of Timothy is
barred, and if by any unfortunate accident Mary's name is mentioned, we
immediately look opposite ways and a silence follows, in which I feel
sure he is smiling, and wonder what the deuce he is smiling at. I
remembered now that I had last seen him when I was dining with him at
his club (for he is become member of a club of painter fellows, and
Mary is so proud of this that she has had it printed on his card), when
undoubtedly he had looked preoccupied. It had been the look, I saw now,
of one who shared a guilty secret.

As all was thus suddenly revealed to me I laughed unpleasantly at
myself, for, on my soul, I had been thinking well of Mary of late.
Always foolishly inflated about David, she had been grudging him even to
me during these last weeks, and I had forgiven her, putting it down to a
mother's love. I knew from the poor boy of unwonted treats she had been
giving him; I had seen her embrace him furtively in a public place, her
every act, in so far as they were known to me, had been a challenge to
whoever dare assert that she wanted anyone but David. How could I, not
being a