“That is quite reasonable,” said he. “It is a distinction to become your friend. It will be remembered in my favour when my efforts as Professor at the Academy are forgotten.” His last sentence was unheard, for Mrs. Bunbury was giving all her attention to her sister, of whose face she had just caught a glimpse. “Heavens, child!” she whispered to her, “what is the matter with you?” “What should be the matter with me?” said Mary. “What, except--oh, this place is stifling! And the managers boasted that it would be cool and well ventilated at all times!” “My dear girl, you'll be quite right when I take you into the air,” said Bunbury. “No, no; I do not need to leave the rotunda; I shall be myself in a moment,” said the girl somewhat huskily and spasmodically. “For heaven's sake don't stare so, child,” she added to her sister, making a pitiful attempt to laugh. “But, my dear----” began Mrs. Bunbury; she was interrupted by Mary. “Nay,” she cried, “I will not have our mother alarmed, and--well, every one knows what a tongue Mrs. Thrale has. Oh, no; already the faintness has passed away. What should one fear with a doctor in one's company? Come, Dr. Goldsmith, you are a sensible person. You do not make a fuss. Lend me your arm, if you please.” “With all pleasure in life,” cried Oliver. He offered her his arm, and she laid her hand upon it. He could feel how greatly she was trembling. When they had taken a few steps away Mary looked back at her sister and Bunbury and smiled reassuringly at them. Her companion saw that, immediately afterwards, her glance went in the direction of the officer who had bowed to her. “Take me up to one of the galleries, my dear friend,” she said. “Take me somewhere--some place away from here--any place away from here.” He brought her to an alcove off one of the galleries where only one sconce with wax candles was alight. “Why should you tremble, my dear girl?” said he. “What is there to be afraid of? I am your friend--you know that I would die to save you from the least trouble.” “Trouble? Who said anything about trouble?” she cried. “I am in no trouble--only for the trouble I am giving you, dear Goldsmith. And you did not come in the bloom-tinted coat after all.” He made no reply to her spasmodic utterances. The long silence was broken only by the playing of the band, following Madame Agujari's song--the hum of voices and laughter from the well-dressed mob in the rotunda and around the galleries. At last the girl put her hand again upon his arm, saying-- “I wonder what you think of this business, my dear friend--I wonder what you think of your Jessamy Bride.” “I think nothing but what is good of you, my dear,” said he tenderly. “But if you can tell me of the matter that troubles you, I think I may be able to make you see that it should not be a trouble to you for a moment. Why, what can possibly have happened since we were all so merry in France together?”