“Oh!” cried Marian, rising. “Miss McQuinch is probably wondering whether I am drowned or lost. I must get back to the Hall as fast as I can. They have returned from Bushy Copse before this; and I am sure they are asking about me.” Conolly rose silently and walked with her as far as the path from the cottage to the laboratory. “This is my way, Miss Lind,” said he. “I am going to the laboratory. Will you be so kind as to give my respects to Miss McQuinch. I shall not see her again, as I must return to town by the last train to-night.” “And are you not coming back—not at all, I mean?” “Not at all.” “Oh!” said Marian slowly. “Good bye, Miss Lind.” He was about to raise his hat as usual; but Marian, with a smile, put out her hand. He took it for the first time; looked at her for a moment gravely; and left her. Lest they should surprise one another in the act, neither of them looked back at the other as they went their several ways. BOOK II CHAPTER VII In the spring, eighteen months after his daughter’s visit to Carbury Towers, Mr. Reginald Harrington Lind called at a house in Manchester Square and found Mrs. Douglas at home. Sholto’s mother was a widow lady older than Mr. Lind, with a rather glassy eye and shaky hand, who would have looked weak and shiftless in an almshouse, but who, with plenty of money, unlimited domestic service, and unhesitating deference from attendants who were all trained artists in their occupation, made a fair shew of being a dignified and interesting old lady. When he was seated, her first action was to take a new photograph from a little table at her side, and hand it to him without a word, awaiting his recognition of it with a shew of natural pride and affection which was amateurish in comparison to the more polished and skilful comedy with which her visitor took it and pretended to admire it. “Capital. Capital,” said Mr. Lind. “He must give us one.” “You dont think that the beard has spoiled him, do you?” said Mrs. Douglas. “Certainly not: it is an improvement,” said Mr. Lind, decisively. “You are glad to have him back again with you, I dare say. Ah yes, yes” (Mrs. Douglas’s eyes had answered for her). “Did he tell you that he met me? I saw him on Wednesday last for the first time since his return to London. How long was he away?” “Two years,” she replied, with slow emphasis, as if such an absence were hardly credible. “Two long years. He has been staying in Paris, in Venice, in Florence: a month here, a week there, dissatisfied everywhere. He would have been almost as happy with me at home. And how is Marian?” “Well,” said Mr. Lind, smiling, “I believe she is still disengaged; and she professes to be fancy free. She is fond of saying, generally, that she will never marry, and so forth. That is the new fashion with young women—if saying what they dont mean can be called a new fashion.”