Thus adjured, Lily turned her eyes on the spectacle which was affording Mr. Dorset such legitimate mirth. It certainly appeared, as he said, that Mrs. Dorset was the more active participant in the scene: her neighbour seemed to receive her advances with a temperate zest which did not distract him from his dinner. The sight restored Lily’s good humour, and knowing the peculiar disguise which Mr. Dorset’s marital fears assumed, she asked gaily: “Aren’t you horribly jealous of her?” Dorset greeted the sally with delight. “Oh, abominably—you’ve just hit it—keeps me awake at night. The doctors tell me that’s what has knocked my digestion out—being so infernally jealous of her.—I can’t eat a mouthful of this stuff, you know,” he added suddenly, pushing back his plate with a clouded countenance; and Lily, unfailingly adaptable, accorded her radiant attention to his prolonged denunciation of other people’s cooks, with a supplementary tirade on the toxic qualities of melted butter. It was not often that he found so ready an ear; and, being a man as well as a dyspeptic, it may be that as he poured his grievances into it he was not insensible to its rosy symmetry. At any rate he engaged Lily so long that the sweets were being handed when she caught a phrase on her other side, where Miss Corby, the comic woman of the company, was bantering Jack Stepney on his approaching engagement. Miss Corby’s role was jocularity: she always entered the conversation with a handspring. “And of course you’ll have Sim Rosedale as best man!” Lily heard her fling out as the climax of her prognostications; and Stepney responded, as if struck: “Jove, that’s an idea. What a thumping present I’d get out of him!” SIM ROSEDALE! The name, made more odious by its diminutive, obtruded itself on Lily’s thoughts like a leer. It stood for one of the many hated possibilities hovering on the edge of life. If she did not marry Percy Gryce, the day might come when she would have to be civil to such men as Rosedale. IF SHE DID NOT MARRY HIM? But she meant to marry him—she was sure of him and sure of herself. She drew back with a shiver from the pleasant paths in which her thoughts had been straying, and set her feet once more in the middle of the long white road.... When she went upstairs that night she found that the late post had brought her a fresh batch of bills. Mrs. Peniston, who was a conscientious woman, had forwarded them all to Bellomont. * * * * * Miss Bart, accordingly, rose the next morning with the most earnest conviction that it was her duty to go to church. She tore herself betimes from the lingering enjoyment of her breakfast tray, rang to have her grey gown laid out, and despatched her maid to borrow a prayer-book from Mrs. Trenor.