able to contain herself; “to-night--I shall be alone to-night.” What did it matter who heard her? He nodded, she thought, though he did not look at her, and went away, leaving her to the exhilarating task of that talk about society, which is much the same whether your horizon is bounded by the Foreign Office or by the Mansion House. The interval was terrible to her till all those Sunday triflers had departed. She told her father at dinner, fearing lest he might think it his duty to give her his company on the Sunday evening, as he often did, that she expected Gervase. “Oh,” said Mr Thursley, elevating his eyebrows. “I have scarcely seen him,” Madeline said, unable to contain the turmoil of her feelings, “for a week.” “Oh,” said Mr Thursley again, “the less you see of that madman the better, it appears to me.” “I hope you don’t believe, papa,” cried Madeline, “that anything that has happened has changed my feelings.” “I am very sorry to hear,” said Mr Thursley; “it has changed his, I am pretty sure. And if he thinks he is to hook on to you now for a living----” “You don’t seem to see that you are insulting me as well as Gervase,” she said hastily; then added, in a subdued tone, “I beg your pardon.” “It’s time, I think; but never mind,” said her father. “I can allow for your feelings, Maddie--distracted by that fellow and his fancies; but mind, I’ll not stand that, whatever he may say now.” Madeline made no reply. Fathers perhaps will never learn to relinquish that kind of remark. Mr Thursley was as well aware as any one that it was a futile kind of thing to say; but he had been watching his daughter closely, and he thought he saw that Gervase’s conduct had shaken her trust in him. It was as well, perhaps, to throw in a word to help the adverse impression; but he did not attempt to hinder the meeting. He went out himself to one of the houses where there was music or conversation going on on Sunday evening, and left the coast free.