“Two months, dearest; but instead of wearing me out this hallucination kept me alive and put new blood into my veins. I can quite well see that Sir Edward believes I am on the verge of a mental collapse. Poor man, he does not see what we see and cannot feel as we do; he is still hopelessly ignorant.” “What a narrow escape I have had,” remarked Lionel. “It was miraculous, and the surgeons said they only knew of one other case in which a man who had been shot right through the head recovered consciousness after two months.” “I daresay everyone will say my brain is affected whenever I say or do anything out of the common.” “Never mind, Lionel, you and I have seen into each other’s heart, and that is sufficient to outweigh the loss of the world’s approbation. You see, we cannot look to a storm to wash away all our world’s shams; so we shall have to pass for eccentric or unorthodox, if we mean to live in a world of our own.” “But then, dear Gwen, you remember that Danford said we should be followed in our social reforms by all the cads that surround us.” “Yes, I daresay, but it will be a long time before that happens, and I have done my little work of reform personally, by dismissing my maid, and by sending all my wardrobe to poor gentlewomen. This old shabby dress is the only one I have worn for two months. Ah! Lionel, I am ashamed at appearing before you in such an indecent thing as a dress—but you know, we cannot reform the world too abruptly, and besides I was afraid Sir Edward might give me in charge!” and they both laughed heartily. It did him good to recall the old jokes, and his face brightened as he watched Gwen pirouetting round the room. There was a gentle knock at the door, and Temple came in with Gwendolen’s luncheon, which he placed on the table. He handed to her on a silver tray a bundle of letters and cards. “How funny to see letters again,” said Lionel. “Who are they from?” “A card from the Duke of Saltburn—Lord Petersham—” “Oh! I must ask the old fellow if he is accustomed to sitting next to his butcher on the Board of Public Kitchens! Who next, Gwen?” “There is your pet aversion, Joe Watson, with solicitous inquiries.” “Gwen, I misjudged the old draper. There is a deal of good behind his insular self-consciousness.” “Ha! ha! ha! Little Montagu Vane came to ask how you were!” “Beg pardon, Miss,” broke in the conscientious valet, “Mr Vane never came himself, he sent round a messenger boy.” “Oh! how good, just like him,” said Lionel; “he is a _dilettante_ even in sympathy, and prefers to get his information indirectly.” “There are letters from Mrs Webster, from Mrs Archibald.” “What can they want?” interrupted the patient. “These letters are of no earthly use; the first wants my subscription for some charity fraud, the second needs my name for some social parade. Throw them in the waste-paper basket.” “Mrs Pottinger also sent her card,” went on Gwen, as she dropped the cards and letters one by one on the table.