The strain on his invention paused him. Mrs. Chater, moved by this astonishing revelation of her love, assumed an air in keeping--an air of some pain but no surprise at such ingratitude. She warmed to this husband who, if no hero in the matter of ferocious cabmen, could at least champion her upon occasion. Mary cried: “But I did not jump out! Indeed I did not, Mr. Chater; I fell.” Mrs. Chater said _“Fell!”_ With sublime forbearance she added, “Never mind; the incident is past.” “Mrs. Chater, you must know that I fell out. I was leaning out--you had asked me to see the name of the street--when the horse stumbled.” “It is curious,” said Mrs. Chater, with a pained little smile, “that you managed to 'fall out' before the horse could recover and bolt.” “Very, very curious,” Mr. Chater echoed. How hateful they were, the girl felt. She broke out: “I--” “Miss Humfray, that is enough. Help me upstairs. I will lie down.” Mr. Chater jumped brightly to the bell. “My dear, do; I will send you a hot-water bottle.” His wife recalled the shortcomings for which she had been taking him to task. “Send a fiddlestick,” she rapped; “on a boiling day like this!” She took Mary's arm; leaning heavily, passed from the room. CHAPTER III. Excursions In The Mind Of A Heroine. Her mistress disrobed, head among pillows, slippered, coverleted, eau-de-Cologne on temples, with closed eyes inviting sleep to lull the tumults of the day. Mary climbed to her room. About her mouth there was a ridiculous twitching; and as she watched it in the mirror she strove to wrap herself in the armour in which she had learned to take buffetings. To be dispassionate was the salve she had schooled herself to use upon a wounded spirit--to regard this Mary with the comically twitching face whom now she saw in the glass as a second person whose sufferings might be coldly regarded and dissected. It is a most admirable accomplishment. Nothing is so easy as to be philosophic upon the cares of another--nothing so easy as to wax impatient with an acquaintance who allows himself to be overridden by troubles and pains which appear to us of trifling moment. If, then, we can school ourselves to regard the figure that bears our name as one person, and our ego as another, we have at least a chance of chiding that figure out of all the fancied sufferings it may undergo. With some success Mary had studied the art; now gave that Mary-in-the-glass who stood before her a healthy reproof. “The ridiculous thing you did,” Mary-in-the-glass was told--“the ridiculous thing you did to make yourself miserable was to go thinking about--about Ireland.” The mouth of Mary-in-the-glass ominously twitched. “There you go again. And it is so absolutely forbidden to think about that. Whatever's the use of it?” Mary-in-the-glass could adduce no reason, and must be prodded.