“Really,” said Mrs. Keith, “it seems to me that by this time you might know. Tell me at least whether you are prepared to marry her?” Hubert hesitated just an instant. “Of course not,—so long as I am not sure I am in love with her!” “And pray when will you make up your mind? And what is to become of poor Nora meanwhile?” “Why, Mrs. Keith, if Nora can wait, surely you can.” The urbanity need not be all on his side. “Nora can wait? That’s easily said. Is a young girl a thing to be tried like a piano,—to be strummed on for a pretty tune? O Mr. Lawrence, if I had ever doubted of the selfishness of men! What this matter has been for you, you know best yourself; but I may tell you that for Nora it has been serious.” At these words Hubert passed his hand nervously through his hair and walked to the window. “The miserable fop!” said Mrs. Keith, privately. “His vanity is the only thing that has ears. It is very true they are long ones! If you are not able to make Nora a handsome offer of marriage,” she proceeded, “you have no business here. Retire, quietly, expeditiously, humbly. Leave Nora to me. I will heal her bruises. They shall have been wholesome ones.” Hubert felt that these peremptory accents implied a menace, and that the lady spoke by book. His vanity rankled, but discretion drew a long breath. For a fortnight it had been shut up in a closet. He thanked his stars they had no witnesses; from Mrs. Keith, for once, he could afford to take a lesson. He remained silent for a moment, with his brow bent in meditation. Then turning suddenly, he faced the music. “Mrs. Keith,” he said, “you have done me a service. I thank you sincerely. I have gone further than I meant; I admit it. I am selfish, I am vain, I am anything you please. My only excuse is Nora’s loveliness. It had made an ass of me; I had forgotten that this is a life of logic.” And he bravely took up his hat.