"It couldn't have happened more inconveniently," he said, without regard to Lilian's objection. "I had better tell you at once, Lily: I've asked a friend of mine to come and dine with us to-morrow." She started and looked at him with anxious eyes. "A friend?" "Yes; Glazzard--the man who spoke to me at Kew Station the other day--you remember?" "Oh yes!" Lilian seated herself by the piano and stroked the keys with the tips of her fingers. Standing on the hearth-rug, her companion watched her closely for a moment; his forehead was wrinkled, and he did not seem quite at ease. "Glazzard is a very good fellow," he pursued, looking about the room and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets. "I've known him since I was a boy--a well-read man, thoughtful, clever. A good musician; something more than an amateur with the violin, I believe. An artist, too; he had a bust in the Academy a few years ago, and I've seen some capital etchings of his." "A universal genius!" said Lilian, with a forced laugh. "Well, there's no doubt he has come very near success in a good many directions. Never _quite_ succeeded; there's the misfortune. I suppose he lacks perseverance. But he doesn't care; takes everything with a laugh and a joke." He reached for the evening newspaper, and glanced absently over the columns. For a minute or two there was silence. "What have you told him?" Lilian asked at length, in an undertone. "Why, simply that I have had reasons for keeping my marriage secret." He spoke in a blunt, authoritative way, but with his usual kindly smile. "I thought it better," he added, "after that chance meeting the other day. He's a fellow one can trust, I assure you. Thoroughly good-hearted. As you know, I don't readily make friends, and I'm the last man to give my confidence to any one who doesn't deserve it. But Glazzard and I have always understood each other pretty well, and--at all events, he knows me well enough to be satisfied with as much as I choose to tell him." Quarrier had the air of a man who, without any vulgar patronage, and in a spirit of abundant good-nature, classifies his acquaintance in various degrees of subordination to himself. He was too healthy, too vigorous of frame and frank in manner to appear conceited, but it was evident that his experience of life had encouraged a favourable estimate of his own standing and resources. The ring of his voice was sound; no affectation or insincerity marred its notes. For all that, he seemed just now not entirely comfortable; his pretence of looking over the paper in the intervals of talk was meant to cover a certain awkwardness in discussing the subject he had broached. "You don't object to his coming, Lily?" "No; whatever you think best, dear."