"Now I think that's real--no imposture--none of those made-up cases that the Mendicity Society look up and expose." The remark came from a young man, who was likewise looking out, a very good-looking fellow of prepossessing countenance. There was an air of tenderness in his manner as he spoke, implying tenderness of heart for her who stood by him. And the Lady Adela roused herself, and carelessly asked, "What's real?" For her mind and thoughts had been dwelling on invisible and absent things, and the poverty and the singing had remained to her as though they had not been. "That poor wretch there, and those famished children. That one--the boy--looks as if he had not tasted food for a week. See how he fixes his eyes up here! I am sure they are famished." "Oh, Charles, don't talk so! Street beggars ought not to be allowed to bring the sight of their misery here. It makes one shiver. They should confine themselves to the City, and similar low parts." "What's that about the City," inquired Mr. Grubb, who had entered and caught the last words; while the young man, Charley Cleveland, moving listlessly towards a distant window, stealthily threw a shilling from it and then quitted the room. "Street beggars," answered Adela. "I say they ought not to be allowed out of the City, exposing their rags and their wretchedness to us! It is too bad." "The City is much obliged to you," said her husband, in a marked manner, as if implying that he belonged to it. And the Lady Adela shrugged her shoulders in very French fashion, the gesture betraying contempt for the speaker and his words. "Adela," he said, quietly drawing her to a sofa and sitting down beside her, "I have long wanted a few minutes' serious talk with you; and I have put it off from day to day, for the subject is full of pain to me, as it ought to be to you. Of shame, I had almost said." She turned her lovely eyes upon him. He could see the hard and defiant expression they took, even in the twilight gloom. "You may spare yourself the trouble of a lecture--if that is what you intend. It will do me no good." "Whether it will do you good or not, you must hear it. Your behaviour----" She interrupted him, humming a merry tune. "Adela, listen to me," he resumed; and perhaps it was the first time she had heard from him so peremptory a tone. "Your behaviour is not what it ought to be; it is not wise or seemly; and you must alter it." "So you have told me ever since we were married, all the four years and odd months," she said, with a half-playful, half-mocking laugh. "Of your behaviour to me I have told you so repeatedly and uselessly that I have now dropped the subject for ever. What I would speak of is your behaviour to young Cleveland. The world is beginning to notice it; and, Adela, what is objectionable in it _shall_ be discontinued." "There is nothing objectionable--except in your imagination."