“Sit down,” she said. “You mustnt mind this absurd dress: it belongs to a new piece I am studying. I always study in character. It is the only way to identify myself with my part, you see.” “It seems a very magnificent dress, certainly,” said the clergyman, nervously. “Thank you for the compliment——” “No, no,” said he, hastily. “I had no such intention.” “Of course not,” said Susanna, with a laugh. “It was merely an unpremeditated remark: all compliments are, of course. I know all about that. But do you think it a proper costume?” “In what sense, may I ask?” “Is it a correct Eastern dress? I am supposed to be one of the wives of the Caliph Somebody al Something. You have no idea how difficult it is to get a reliable model for a dress before laying out a heap of money on it. This was designed in Paris; but I should like to hear it criticized—chronologically, or whatever you call it—by a scholar.” “I really do not know, Madam. I am not an Orientalist; and my studies take a widely different direction from yours.” “Yes, of course,” said Susanna, with a sigh. “But I assure you I often wish for your advice, particularly as to my elocution, which is very faulty. You are such a master of the art.” The clergyman bowed in acceptance of the compliment, and began to take heart; for to receive flattery from ladies in exchange for severe reproof was part of his daily experience. “I have come here,” he said, “to have a very serious conversation with you.” “All right, Doctor. Fire away.” This sudden whim of conferring on him a degree in divinity, and her change of manner—implying that she had been laughing at him before—irritated him. “I presume,” he said, “that you are acquainted with the movements of your brother.” “Of Ned?” said Susanna, frowning a little. “No. What should I know about him?” “He is, I believe, about to be married.” “No!” screamed Susanna, throwing herself back, and making her bangles and ornaments clatter. “Get out, Doctor. You dont mean it.” “Certainly I mean it. It is not my profession to jest. I must also tell you that his marriage will make it quite impossible for you to continue here with my cousin.” “Why? Who is he going to marry?” “Ahem! He has succeeded in engaging the affections of my sister.” “What! Your sister? Marian Lind?” “Yes.” Susanna uttered a long whistle, and then, with a conviction and simplicity which prevented even the Rev. George from being shocked, said: “Well, I _am_ damned! I know more than one fool of a girl who will be sick and sorry to hear it.” She paused, and added carelessly: “I suppose all your people are delighted?” “I do not know why you should suppose so. We have had no hand in the matter. My sister has followed her own inclinations.” “Indeed! Let me tell you, young man, that your sister might have gone farther and fared worse.” “Doubtless. However, you will see now how impossible it is that you should remain in your present—that you should continue here, in fact.”