Margaret Forster was fresh and wholesome-looking like her brother, but her forehead was lower, her lips thinner and tighter, her whole expression colder, harder, and more respectable, and she wore much more gorgeous apparel She adored her brother and his child, with the quiet adoration of a frosty and impeccable well-dressed virgin. In matters of religion she was very High Church, a staunch follower of the Rev. Father Seraphin, of the Kensington Oratory, and there was scarcely a day in the year on which she did not hear morning and evening mass. ‘You are late, James,’ she said as he entered. ‘I suppose you have dined?’ ‘Yes, at the club. I have just time to dress for the theatre. Will you come and bring James? I have a box.’ ‘What theatre, James?’ ‘The Parthenon.’ ‘What are they playing?’ ‘Shakespeare’s “Cymbeline.”’ ‘Why, James, you have seen that performance twice already to my knowledge,’ said Margaret, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Is it so very good?’ ‘So much so that I want you to see it again, and--and I want James to see it. The new actress is charming. But there is no time to lose, and the carriage will be at the door in half an hour.’ Margaret rose, smiling, well pleased at the attention of her brother, and passed upstairs to prepare her little nephew. Left alone in the drawing-room, Forster paced up and down in a somewhat gloomy brown study, muttering again and again to himself, and pausing from time to time to gaze into one of the great mirrors; he was not, however, gazing at his own reflection, though he seemed to be doing so--he was contemplating a visionary figure far away. Later on in the evening, Forster, with his sister and his son, occupied a box in the Parthenon. They arrived late, and when they entered ‘Imogen’ was in the middle of her first parting with ‘Posthumus,’ but as she left the stage she glanced up and met Forster’s eyes. Margaret Forster saw that look, and in a moment her suspicions were awakened. For the rest of the evening she was busily engaged, not following the play, but jealously watching her brother. As she did so, her face hardened and her eyes grew cold as steel; for she had discovered his secret. The play ended, the curtain descended, and in answer to the enthusiastic applause of the audience Imogen came before the curtain. Then Margaret Forster saw the actress glance up again with a smile of recognition. They drove home and supped together in the great dining-room. Forster was generally a water-drinker, but on this occasion he ordered champagne, and pressed his sister to partake of it with him. The wise virgin, who saw that something was coming, was not to be persuaded. Presently Forster dismissed the footman in waiting; then, looking to Margaret with a bright but somewhat nervous smile he asked-- ‘Well, how did you like her?’ ‘Miss Vere? I think she is rather pretty and acts intelligently.’ ‘Intelligently! She is a genius. Do take some champagne.’