It was with a somewhat blank and lonely feeling that I betook myself to the van from which the luggage was being taken out: and, after giving directions to have my boxes sent after me, I made my way on foot to Arthur's lodgings, and soon lost my lonely feeling in the hearty welcome my old friend gave me, and the cozy warmth and cheerful light of the little sitting-room into which he led me. “Little, as you see, but quite enough for us two. Now, take the easy-chair, old fellow, and let's have another look at you! Well, you do look a bit pulled down!” and he put on a solemn professional air. “I prescribe Ozone, quant. suff. Social dissipation, fiant pilulae quam plurimae: to be taken, feasting, three times a day!” “But, Doctor!” I remonstrated. “Society doesn't 'receive' three times a day!” “That's all you know about it!” the young Doctor gaily replied. “At home, lawn-tennis, 3 P.M. At home, kettledrum, 5 P.M. At home, music (Elveston doesn't give dinners), 8 P.M. Carriages at 10. There you are!” It sounded very pleasant, I was obliged to admit. “And I know some of the lady-society already,” I added. “One of them came in the same carriage with me.” “What was she like? Then perhaps I can identify her.” “The name was Lady Muriel Orme. As to what she was like--well, I thought her very beautiful. Do you know her?” “Yes--I do know her.” And the grave Doctor coloured slightly as he added “Yes, I agree with you. She is beautiful.” “I quite lost my heart to her!” I went on mischievously. “We talked--” “Have some supper!” Arthur interrupted with an air of relief, as the maid entered with the tray. And he steadily resisted all my attempts to return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn itself away. Then, as we sat gazing into the fire, and conversation was lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession. “I hadn't meant to tell you anything about her,” he said (naming no names, as if there were only one 'she' in the world!) “till you had seen more of her, and formed your own judgment of her: but somehow you surprised it out of me. And I've not breathed a word of it to any one else. But I can trust you with a secret, old friend! Yes! It's true of me, what I suppose you said in jest. “In the merest jest, believe me!” I said earnestly. “Why, man, I'm three times her age! But if she's your choice, then I'm sure she's all that is good and--” “--and sweet,” Arthur went on, “and pure, and self-denying, and true-hearted, and--” he broke off hastily, as if he could not trust himself to say more on a subject so sacred and so precious. Silence followed: and I leaned back drowsily in my easy-chair, filled with bright and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his lady-love, and of all the peace and happiness in store for them.