“His uncle’s death was quite sudden,” said Lady Marjorie. “I suppose he was too busy and too much worried to come and see you. You know, we all thought that Geoffrey would succeed to Dr. Williams’s house in Harley Street, and that it would be a splendid thing for him to have a good West End practice. Well, it seems that the house is mortgaged, and the practice has gone down to nothing. I dare say you have heard of Mrs. Neville Williams--she is a well-known society leader, and has the reputation of being one of the most expensively dressed women in London. It was her extravagance that ruined poor Dr. Williams, and her debts, or rather her husband’s debts, are, I believe, something enormous. However, Bexley told me that she is already engaged, _sub rosa_, to the Duke of Wallingcourt, so no doubt she considered her husband’s death a happy release. She went about everywhere with Wallingcourt last season, and poor little Williams used to come running behind with her _porte-monnaie_, as if he were her footman instead of her husband. I am so very sorry for Geoffrey Milnes, though. He had quite counted on the Harley Street house and practice to give him a good start, and now he will have to go plodding on at Durlston instead. “That is the worst of waiting for dead men’s shoes,” said Celia, sententiously. “But I am really sorry for Geoffrey. I will write him a letter of condolence as soon as I have time.” “Then you do not correspond with him regularly?” “Oh no. I have had two letters from him since I left Durlston, that is all.” She glanced at the clock, which pointed to a quarter to one. “We must be going,” she continued, rising. “You don’t mind coming back with me to Maida Vale?” “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Lady Marjorie, hastily, “I met Guy Haviland this morning. You’ve heard of Haviland, haven’t you? He is a musical critic, and writes plays. I spoke to him about you, as I thought he might be of use to you in your musical career. He is a thoroughly good fellow, and always ready to encourage youthful talent. He expressed the wish to make your acquaintance, and has invited us to luncheon to-day. We are to meet him at Prince’s, in Piccadilly, at half-past one.” The girl was delighted at the prospect of meeting Guy Haviland personally, for he was well-known in musical and dramatic circles, and she had heard him very highly spoken of amongst her friends. Suddenly, however, her face clouded. “It is very kind of you and of him,” she faltered; “but I really think I ought to go home. You see, since I’ve come to London, I have made up my mind to practise the Jewish religion sincerely, and that forbids me to partake of food which has not been prepared according to Jewish law. Otherwise I should have been so pleased to lunch with you and Mr. Haviland.”