"We always say 'us,' don't we?" said Bertha,--"as if we were part-proprietors of the Westoria lands ourselves. It is a little confusing, don't you think so?" She paused and looked up with one of her sudden smiles. "Still I don't feel exactly sure that I have been--but no, I am not to call it lobbying, am I? What must I call it? It really ought to have a name." "Don't call it anything," said Richard, faintly conscious of his dubiousness again. "Why, what a good idea!" she answered. "What a good way of getting round a difficulty--not to give it a name! It almost obliterates it, doesn't it? It is an actual inspiration. We won't call it anything. There is so much in a name--too much, on the whole, really. But--without giving it a name--I have behaved pretty well and advanced our--your--whose interests?" "Everybody's," he replied, with an effort at lightness. "Mine particularly. I own that my view of the matter is a purely selfish one. There is a career before me, you know, if all goes well." He detected at once the expression of gentleness which softened her eyes as she watched him. "You always wanted a career, didn't you?" she said. "It isn't pleasant," he said, "for a man to know that he is not a success." "If I can give you your career," she said, "you shall have it, Richard. It is a simpler thing than I thought, after all." And she went upstairs to her room, stopping on the way to spend a few minutes in the nursery. CHAPTER XXXII. The professor sat in his favorite chair by his library fire, an open volume on his knee, and his after-dinner glass of wine, still unfinished, on the table near him. He had dined a couple of hours ago with Mr. Arbuthnot, who had entertained him very agreeably and had not long since left him to present himself upon some social scene. It was of his departed guest that he was thinking as he pondered, and of certain plans he had on hand for his ultimate welfare, and his thoughts so deeply occupied him that he did not hear the sound of the door-bell, which rang as he sat, nor notice any other sound until the door of the room opened and some one entered. He raised his head and looked around then, uttering a slight ejaculation of surprise. "Why, Bertha!" he said. "My dear! This is unexpected." He paused and gave her one of his gently curious looks. She had thrown her cloak off as she came near him, and something in her appearance attracted his attention. "My dear," he said, slowly, "you look to-night as you did years ago. I am reminded of the time when Philip first came to us. I wonder why?" There was a low seat near his side, and she came and took it. "It is the dress," she said. "I was looking over some things I had laid aside, and found it. I put it on for old acquaintance' sake. I have never worn it since then. Perhaps I hoped it would make me feel like a girl again."