'Not in the least. At first she could not make you out. Then she decided you were treating Alice as a very young girl, and inventing stories for her amusement.' 'Oh, was that it?' said Nevill. 'I'm delighted. Because, you know, Osborne, it would never do for your mother to know the truth about me until after Kate and I are married.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Nevill.' 'Perhaps you think I am now inventing travellers' tales to please a child. Were you very little better than a child when you were peddling over your doubts and fears? Why didn't you do as I did? Why didn't you admit that better men and better informed men believed what you hesitated to adopt--men, too, who had given the attention of a lifetime to the subject? Who's that singing? It isn't Kate; her voice is a soprano. It can't be your younger sister; she's very fair, and fair women never have contralto voices. What a magnificent voice it is! What song is that?' 'It is Marie,' said George,' and she is singing the "Miserere nobis."' 'It is very fine. To think you were a doubter a day or two ago!' 'I am one still.' CHAPTER XI. AFTER DINNER AT HOME. When the singing ended, Nevill looked up quickly into his companion's face, and cried in surprise,-- 'What, another change! Why, the weather-cock and the moon are fixed stars compared with you! All is right between you and Marie, and all is wrong between you and yourself. You are as unintelligible as a woman, and more inconstant. What is your difficulty _now?_' 'I have no difficulty now. All is clear and fair.' 'Then we'll make it a double marriage. I'll give you away, and you'll give me away. That will be impressive. It reminds me of the time when I wore a turban.' 'Now, Nevill, Alice isn't here to be amused. Let us talk like men.' 'Severe, but perhaps merited. I am so delighted with all I see and hear and feel that I am disposed to dry up and become sedate and middle-aged; at once. Come, Osborne, I'll be middle-aged; you can't help being. You were born middle-aged. You were intended for the patriarchal time. You ought to have flocks and herds, and a long white beard, and five wives. A man with a slow blue eye, like yours, is always a good judge of cattle. But, as you suggest, let us talk like men. What is the new position? How have you managed--reconciled your difficulties?' 'You may remember that day Marie, Kate, and I deserted you in London, and dined with the husband of a friend of Marie's?' 'Yes, I recollect. It was a case of most inhuman desertion.' 'Well, on that occasion we dined with a man named Parkinson, a very agreeable, well-read, and thoughtful man. Nothing could have been more pleasant than the host; the hostess and the two children of the house were simply charming. Yet, as I told you at the time, Parkinson had long ceased to occupy his thoughts with anything beyond the world around us.' 'And you have lately come to the conclusion that--'