“I should make you come home with us now,” said Marian, “but for this Sunday being a special occasion. Nelly McQuinch is to spend the evening with us; and as I have not seen her since we came back, I must have her all to myself. Come next Sunday, if you care to.” “Do,” said Conolly. “Half past three is our Sunday hour. If you cannot face that, we are usually at home afterwards the entire evening. Marian: we have exactly fifteen minutes to catch our train.” “Oh! let us fly. If we miss it, Nelly will be kept waiting half an hour.” Then they parted, Douglas promising to come to them on that day week. “Dont you think he is growing very fat?” said she, as they walked away. “Yes. He is beginning to take the world easily. He does not seem to be making much of his life.” “What matter, so long as he enjoys it?” “Pooh! He doesnt know what enjoyment means.” They said nothing further until they were in the train, where Marian sat looking listlessly through the window, whilst Conolly, opposite, reclining against the cushions, looked thoughtfully at her. “Ned,” said she, suddenly. “My dear.” “Do you know that Sholto is more infatuated about me than ever?” “Naturally. You are lovelier than when he last saw you.” “You are nearly as complimentary as he,” said Marian, blushing with a gratification which she was very unwilling to betray. “He noticed it sooner than you. I discovered it myself in the glass before either of you.” “No doubt you did. What station is this?” “I dont know.” Then, raising her voice so as to be overheard, she exclaimed “Here is a stupid man coming into our carriage.” A young man entered the compartment, and, after one glance at Marian, who turned her back on him impatiently, spent the remainder of the journey making furtive attempts to catch a second glimpse of her face. Conolly looked a shade graver at his wife’s failure in perfect self-control; but he by no means shared her feelings toward the intrusive passenger. Marian and he were in different humors; and he did not wish to be left alone with her. As they walked from Addison Road railway station to their house, Conolly mused in silence with his eyes on the gardens by the way. Marian, who wished to talk, followed his measured steps with impatience. “Let me take your arm, Ned: I cannot keep up with you.” “Certainly.” “I hope I am not inconveniencing you,” she said, after a further interval of silence. “Hm—no.” “I am afraid I am. It does not matter. I can get on by myself.” “Arm in arm is such an inconvenient and ridiculous mode of locomotion—you need not struggle in the public street: now that you have got my arm you shall keep it—I say it is such an inconvenient and ridiculous mode of locomotion that if you were any one else I should prefer to wheel you home in a barrow. Our present mode of proceeding would be inexcusable if I were a traction-engine, and you my tender.”