Hammond looked about him with a sense of intrusion, as he found himself for the first time in Belle Yorke’s home. It was utterly unlike anything he had expected to find. Belle Yorke lived in that part of Hammersmith which had not yet succeeded in covering itself with flats and calling itself West Kensington. The house outside was small and unpretentious; but so are the outsides of many houses which are gay enough within. Miss Yorke’s appearance on the boards was too recent for her yet to have furnished a miniature palace and set up a brougham on the proceeds of the public favor. But the domestic, old-fashioned air which pervaded the whole place came on Hammond as a surprise and a rebuke. The servant who had just shown him in asked a question which further opened his eyes. “Would you like to see Mrs. Yorke, sir?” Hammond started. “Is that Miss Yorke’s mother?” “Yes, sir.” “Does she live here?” The servant opened her eyes. “Lor’, yes, sir! This is ’er ’ouse!” Hammond considered for a minute. “Well, you can tell Mrs. Yorke I am here, if you like.” The servant nodded and went out, leaving him to his reflections. In love, as in war, there is an armed neutrality when the period of friendship has passed away, but neither side is yet ready for a declaration. Just such a stage had been reached in the joint history of John Hammond and Belle Yorke. He had met her in Bohemia, that pleasant country which the passing tourist sees only in its brightest garb, when the trees are green in the valleys and the vines are ripening in the warm sunshine. The manners of Bohemia are freer than those of other lands, and among that friendly folk the course of acquaintanceship between a man and a woman is not curbed and governed and interpreted quite as it is in the dominions of society. So the millionaire had drifted into a friendship with the music-hall singer without any after-thought; and when the after-thought had gradually grown up of its own accord, he had found it the most comfortable plan to shut his eyes to it and make believe it was not there. If he had been ten years younger, the Marchioness of Severn might have despaired of her son-in-law. But he had come to that age when life begins to change its aspect; when the white blossom of romance with which it tempts the eye of youth begins to shed its petals, and the red fruit of ambition is disclosed. John Hammond was still young enough to love, but he was old enough to count the cost.