"Well, my dear, you'll soon have to remember her! so you needn't talk in that lofty tone. For they're going to be married at Easter, and if you want to make friends with the young man, you'll have to realise the wife!" "Married at Easter? How do you know?" "In the first place Mr. Watton said so, in the next there are such things as newspapers. But of course you didn't notice such trifles, you never do." "Betty, you're very cross with me to-day!" Lady Maxwell looked up at her friend with a little pleading air. "Oh no! only for your good. I know you're thinking of nothing in the world but how to make that man take a reasonable view of Maxwell's Bill. And I want to impress upon you that _he's_ probably thinking a great deal more about getting married than about Factory Bills. You see, _your_ getting married was a kind of accident. But other people are different. And oh, dear, you do know so little about them when they don't live hi four pair backs! There, don't defend yourself--you sha'n't!" And, stooping, Betty stifled her friend's possible protest by kissing her. "Now then, come along, Frank--you've got your speech to write--and I've got to copy it out. Don't swear! you know you're going to have two whole days' golfing next week. Good-bye, Marcella! My love to Aldous--and tell him not to be so late next time I come to tea. Good-bye!" And off she swept, pausing, however, on the landing to open the door again and put in an eager face. "Oh! and, by the way, the young man has a mother--Frank reminded me. His womenkind don't seem to be his strong point--but as she doesn't earn _even_ four-and-sixpence a week--very sadly the contrary--I won't tell you any more now, or you'll forget. Next time!" When Marcella Maxwell was at last left alone, she began to pace slowly up and down the large bare room, as it was very much her wont to do. She was thinking of George Tressady, and of the personality his talk had seemed to reveal. "His heart is all in _power_--in what he takes for magnificence." she said to herself. "He talks as if he had no humanity, and did not care a rap for anybody. But it is a pose--I _think_ it is a pose. He is interesting--he will develop. One would like--to show him things." After another pensive turn or two she stopped beside a photograph that stood upon her writing-table. It was a photograph of her husband--a tall, smoothfaced man, with pleasant eyes, features of no particular emphasis, and the free carriage of the country-bred Englishman. As she looked at it her face relaxed unconsciously, inevitably; under the stimulus of some habitual and secret joy. It was for his sake, for his sake only that she was still thinking of George Tressady, still pondering the young man's character and remarks.