fortune willed, his name might yet be known, for no merit of his, but as that of Dale Bannister's friend. Women have very often, and the best of women most often, a provoking sedateness of mind. Mrs. Roberts had never read the poems. True, but she had, of course, read about them, and about their author, and about their certain immortality; yet she was distinctly more interested in the tidings of Tom Steadman, a wretched dipsomaniac, than in the unparalleled news about Dale Bannister. In her heart she thought the Doctor a cleverer, as she had no doubt he was a better, man than the poet, and the nearest approach she made to grasping the real significance of the situation was when she remarked: "It will be nice for him to find one man, at all events, who can appreciate him." The Doctor smiled; he was pleased--who would not be?--that his wife should think first of the pleasure Dale Bannister would find in his society. It was absurd, but it was charming of her, and as she sat on the edge of his chair, he put his arm round his waist and said: "I beat him in one thing, anyhow." "What's that, Jim?" "My wife. He has no wife like mine." "Has he a wife at all?" asked Mrs. Roberts, with increased interest. A wife was another matter. "I believe not, but if he had----" "Don't be silly. Did you leave Tom quiet?" "Hang Tom! he deserves it. And give me my tea." Then came the baby, and with it an end, for the time, of Dale Bannister. CHAPTER III. =Denborough Determines to Call.=