“Marian: you got out of bed at the wrong side this morning; and you have made that mistake oftener since your return from Sark than in all your life before. Douglas has become a lazy good-for-nothing; and he comes here a great deal too often. Instead of encouraging him to dangle after you as he does, and to teach you all those finely turned sentiments about love which you were airing a minute ago, you ought to make him get called to the bar, or sent into Parliament, or put to work in some fashion.” “Nelly!” “Bother Nelly! It is true; and you know it as well as I do.” “If he fancies himself in love with me, I cannot help it.” “You can help his following you about.” “I cannot. He does not follow me about. Why does not Ned object? He knows that Sholto is in love with me; and he does not care.” “Oh, if it is only to make Ned jealous, then I have nothing more to say: you may flirt away as hard as you please. There’s a knock at the door, just in time to prevent us from quarrelling. I know whose knock it is, too.” Marian had flushed slightly at the sound; and Elinor, with her feet stretched out before her, lapped the carpet restlessly with her heels, and watched her cousin sourly as Douglas entered. He was in evening dress. “Good-evening,” said Elinor. “So you are going to the theatre, too?” “Why?” said Douglas. “Is any one coming with us? Shall we have the pleasure of your company?” “No,” replied Elinor, drily. “I thought Mr. Conolly was perhaps going with you.” “I shall be very glad, I am sure, if he will,” said Douglas. “He will not,” said Marian. “I doubt if he will come home before we start.” “You got my flowers safely, I see.” “Yes, thank you. They are beautiful.” “They need be, if you are to wear them.” “I think I will go,” said Elinor, “if you can spare me. Marian has been far from amiable; and if you are going to pay her compliments, I shall very soon be as bad as she. Good-bye.” Douglas gratefully went with her to the door. She looked very hard at him, and almost made a grimace as they parted; but she said nothing. “I am very glad she went,” said Marian, when Douglas returned. “She annoys me. Everything annoys me.” “You are leading an impossible life here, Marian,” he said, putting his hand on her chair and bending over her. “Whilst it lasts, everything will annoy you; and I, who would give the last drop of my blood to spare you a moment’s pain, shall never experience the delight of seeing you happy.” “What other life can I lead?” Douglas made an impulsive movement, as though to reply; but he hesitated, and did not speak. Marian was not looking at him. She was gazing into the fire. “Sholto,” she said, after an interval of silence, “you must not come here any more.” “What!” “You are too idle. You come here too often. Why do you not become a barrister, or go into Parliament, or at least write books? If Nelly can succeed as an author, surely you can.”