The play turned upon a typical French situation, treated in a manner rather more French than usual. The reader shrugged his shoulders a good deal as he read on. ‘Strange nation!’ he muttered to himself after an act or two. ‘How they do revel in mud!’ Presently, just as the fifth act was beginning to get hold of him with that force which, after all, only a French playwright is master of, he looked up and saw the two sisters coming round the corner of the house from the great kitchen garden which stretched its grass paths and tangled flower-masses down the further slope of the hill. The transition was sharp from Dumas’ heated atmosphere of passion and crime to the quiet English rectory, its rural surroundings, and the figures of the two Englishwomen advancing toward him. Catherine was in a loose white dress with a black lace scarf draped about her head and form. Her look hardly suggested youth, and there was certainly no touch of age in it. Ripeness, maturity, serenity--these were the chief ideas which seemed to rise in the mind at sight of her. ‘Are you amusing yourself, Mr. Langham?’ she said, stopping beside him and retaining with slight, imperceptible force Rose’s hand, which threatened to slip away. ‘Very much. I have been skimming through a play, which I hope to see next week, by way of preparation.’ Rose turned involuntarily. Not wishing to discuss ‘Marianne’ with either Catherine or her sister, Langham had just closed the book and was returning it to his pocket. But she had caught sight of it. You are reading “Marianne,”’ she exclaimed, the slightest possible touch of wonder in her tone. ‘Yes, it is “Marianne,”’ said Langham, surprised in his turn. He had very old-fashioned notions about the limits of a girl’s acquaintance with the world, knowing nothing, therefore, as may be supposed, about the modern young woman, and he was a trifle scandalized by Rose’s accent of knowledge. ‘I read it last week,’ she said carelessly; ‘and the Piersons’--turning to her sister--‘have promised to take me to see it next winter if Desforêts comes, again, as everyone expects.’ ‘Who wrote it?’ asked Catherine innocently. The theatre not only gave her little pleasure, but wounded in her a hundred deep unconquerable instincts. But she had long ago given up in despair the hope of protecting against Rose’s dramatic instincts with success. ‘Dumas _fils_’ said Langham dryly. He was distinctly a good deal astonished. Rose looked at him, and something brought a sudden flame into her cheek. ‘It is one of the best of his,’ she said defiantly. ‘I have read a good many others. Mr. Pierson lent me a volume. And when I was introduced to Madame Desforêts last week, she agreed with me that “Marianne” is nearly the best of all.’ All this, of course, with the delicate nose well in air.