“Here, Marmaduke,” she said, offering him her hand. “Good-bye. You are in one of your outrageous humors this afternoon.” “What am I doing?” he replied. “I am behaving myself perfectly. Let us settle about the party before we go.” “Good evening, Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, coming up to them with the umbrellas. “This is yours, I think, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.” “Good evening,” said Marmaduke, subsiding. “I——Well, you are all off, are you?” “Quite time for us, I think,” said Elinor. “Good-bye.” Mrs. Fairfax, with a second and more distant bow, passed out with Conolly and Douglas. Elinor waited a moment to whisper to Marmaduke. “First rate,” said Marmaduke, in reply to the whisper; “and beginning to talk like one o’clock. Oh yes, I tell you!” He shook Elinor’s hand at such length in his gratitude for the inquiry that she was much relieved when a servant in livery interrupted him. “Missus wants to speak to you, sir, afore she goes,” said the man. Elinor shook her head at Marmaduke, and hurried away to rejoin the rest outside. As they went through the courtyard, they passed an open carriage, in which reclined a pretty woman with dark eyes and delicate artificial complexion. Her beauty and the elegance of her dress attracted their attention. Suddenly Marian became aware that Conolly was watching her as she looked at the woman in the carriage. She was about to say something, when, to her bewilderment, Elinor nudged her. Then she understood too, and looked solemnly at Susanna. Susanna, observing her, stared insolently in return, and Marian averted her head like a guilty person and hurried on. Conolly saw it all, and did not speak until they rejoined Mrs. Fairfax and Douglas in Piccadilly. “How do you propose to go home?” said Douglas. “Walk to St. James’s Street, where the carriage is waiting at the club; take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park,” said Elinor. “I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me,” said Douglas. Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared, when he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister’s carriage. “Well, Susanna,” said he. “How are you?” “Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied carelessly, her eyes filling with tears, nevertheless. “I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.” “Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.” “What is its name?” he said more gravely. “Lucy.” “Is it quite well?” “I suppose not. According to Nurse, it is always ill.” Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in which he had used to talk with his sister. “Tired of it already?” he said. “Poor little wretch!” “It is very well off,” she retorted, angrily: “a precious deal better than I was at its age. It gets petting enough from its father, heaven knows! He has nothing else to do. I have to work.” “You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose. You are quite famous.”