The lady who was the third guest was a genial and rather homely creature; she and Isabel talked women’s talk whilst the gentlemen became friendly after dinner. In the course of chat Mr. Meres did not fail to say that he and his family were always at home after three o’clock on Sunday, and would be pleased as often as Kingcote chose to look in. He mentioned Ada’s appearance in _The Tattler_, and was gratified to hear Kingcote’s praise. The two got on very well together. Mr. Meres felt surer than ever that he understood.... Kingcote did not look well to-night; he had the appearance of one who lacks sleep. The night before, Mary, after listening to his ceaseless footsteps till three o’clock, had gone up and knocked at his door. After a word or two he opened. “Why are you up so late, Bernard?” she asked. “I heard you moving, and feared you might be unwell.” “I have been reading,” he replied. “I quite forgot that you were underneath. It’s too bad to wake you.” “I have not been asleep. I am anxious about you. Won’t you go to bed?” “To be sure I will. It’s later than I thought. You shan’t hear another sound.” “But it’s not that I care about,” she urged. “I would rather sit with you, if you can’t rest.” “No, no; there’s nothing to be anxious about. We shall wake the children if we talk so much. Be off and sleep, Mary.” She went, with a heavy heart. She was much disturbed on her brother’s account. To-night it was misery to him to have to go away with the others, without one word for himself. After walking to the end of the street, he came back and stood looking at the lighted windows. Presently the drawing-room became dark. He set out on his long journey to Highgate. “Has it been a pleasant evening?” Mary asked. She liked to look at her brother in his evening dress; it gave her all manner of thoughts. At his entrance she had closed a folio volume of Jeremy Taylor’s sermons, which, in impatience at some unwholesome little book she was bent over, Kingcote had put into her hands a few days ago. “At least read good English,” had been the accompanying remark. In answer to her question he gave a weary, indifferent affirmative. “How did you like Mr. Meres?” “Oh, he’s a very decent fellow. He wants me to visit him next Sunday. I believe I promised, but it is scarcely likely that I shall go.” “Why not? Certainly you ought to. Society is just what you want.” “I can’t talk!” he exclaimed impatiently. “I should be a bore. It was only out of politeness that he asked me.” “You wouldn’t find it too disagreeable to meet Miss Warren?”