Macneillie in the meantime had been learning to know Ralph’s future wife. He had been a little surprised at first to find that she was a decidedly reserved girl, not strikingly pretty, rather short, and wholly unlike the being he would have expected Ralph to fall in love with. This was, however, merely his first impression, he had not been two minutes in the room with her before he observed how well her head was set on her shoulders; how in spite of her want of height there was that indescribable touch of dignity in her carriage which he had vainly tried to impart to many a novice on the stage. Then she spoke to him during a pause in the general talk, most of her talking he discovered was done to fill up gaps, and when she spoke a sort of transformation scene took place. Her face suddenly became lovely, the china-blue eyes seemed to radiate light and sweetness, the colour deepened in the softly-rounded cheeks and the most charming dimple made itself seen. “We are all so much looking forward to ‘The Winter’s Tale’ to night,” she said. “You have not seen Ralph act before?” asked Macneillie, knowing quite well what the answer would be but wishing for another variety of the transformation scene. The blue eyes seemed to deepen in colour and an exquisite tenderness softened the whole face. “Never on the stage,” she said. “Of course I have seen him just as an amateur. Do you think he is getting on well?” Now this last question was one to enthrall the heart of any Manager. Actually this girl did not leap to the conclusion that her lover was by nature a full-fledged actor, but asked if he was getting on. “She is the most sensible little woman I ever came across,” thought Macneillie to himself. “In such a case even Mrs. Siddons might have qualified her advice as to marriage.” By and bye Evereld found herself keeping guard over Baby Donal in the drawing-room and talking to Ralph, while Macneillie and Max Hereford adjourned to the smoking-room. The two lovers were serenely happy and saw the future opening before them in all the gorgeous hues of dawn. But Macneillie received a stab from his unconscious companion which was destined to rankle in his heart. They had been speaking of Monkton Verney and not unnaturally Max Hereford, knowing that Christine Greville was a friend but knowing nothing of the true state of affairs, referred to her case. “I only hope she will be able to get her divorce,” he said casually, “but of course there is a doubt.” “A doubt?” said Macneillie frowning. “Why Sir Roderick never attempted to deny his guilt.” “Oh, yes, there is no doubt as to his guilt, and had she been married in Scotland all would have been well, for Scotland has one and the same law for men and women. Unluckily she was married in England.” “I don’t understand you. I know little of the law,” said Macneillie, “but certainly in my country there would be no difficulty when it was a clear case of the breach of the seventh commandment.”