“I should enjoy nothing better than taking you at your word,” said Elinor. “But I heard Mr. Lind come in, a moment ago; and he is not so fond of Chopin as you and I.” Mr. Lind entered whilst she was speaking. He was a dignified gentleman, with delicately chiselled features and portly figure. His silky light brown hair curled naturally about his brow and set it off imposingly. His hands were white and small, with tapering fingers, and small thumbs. “How do you do, sir?” said Marmaduke, blushing. “Thank you: I am better than I have been.” Marmaduke murmured congratulations, and looked at his watch as if pressed for time. “I must be off now,” he said, rising. “I was just going when you came in.” “So soon! Well, I must not detain you, Marmaduke. I heard from your father this morning. He is very anxious to see you settled in life.” “I suppose I shall shake down some day, sir.” “You have very good opportunities—very exceptional opportunities. Has Marian told you that Constance is expected to arrive in town next week?” “Yes: we told him,” said Marian. “He thought it too good to be true, and would hardly believe us,” added Elinor. Mr. Lind smiled at his nephew, happily forgetful, worldly wise as he was, of the inevitable conspiracy of youth against age. They smiled too, except Marmaduke, who, being under observation, kept his countenance like the Man in the Iron Mask. “It is quite true, my boy,” said the uncle, kindly. “But before she arrives, I should like to have a talk with you. When can you come to breakfast with me?” “Any day you choose to name, sir. I shall be very glad.” “Let us say to-morrow morning. Will that be too soon?” “Not at all. It will suit me quite well. Good evening, sir.” “Good evening to you.” When Marmaduke was in the street, he stood for a while considering which way to go. Before the arrival of his uncle, he had intended to spend the afternoon with his cousins. He was now at a loss for a means of killing time. On one point he was determined. There was a rehearsal that day at the Bijou Theatre; and thither, at least, he would not go. He drove to Charing Cross, and drifted back to Leicester Square. He turned away from the theatre, and wandered down Piccadilly. Then he thought he would return as far as the Criterion, and drink. Finally he arrived at the stage door of the Bijou Theatre, and inquired whether the rehearsal was over. “Theyve bin at it since eleven this mornin, and will be pretty nigh til the stage is wanted for to-night,” said the janitor. “I’d as lief youd wait here as go up, if you dont mind, sir. The guvnor is above; and he aint in the best o’ tempers. I’ll send word up.” Marmaduke looked round irresolutely. A great noise of tramping and singing began. “Thats the new procession,” continued the doorkeeper. “Sixteen hextras took on for it. It’s Miss Virtue’s chance for lunch, sir: you wont have long to wait now.”