Then there came a day, shortly after her walk from Bedford Square with Hugh, when Jane brought her a gentleman’s card bearing a name with which she was unfamiliar and a pencilled legend--“Women’s Democratic League.” She decided to see the visitor. A red-haired man with dubious linen and persuasive manners was admitted. She motioned him to a chair. He put his hat on the ground and explained his mission. Her articles had been so appreciated by the League that he had been deputed to invite her to lecture on behalf of that body. Irene was gratified but alarmed. Writing was one thing, lecturing another. “I am sorry to refuse,” she told the man, “but I have given up my little attempts at public life.” “That is a great pity, Mrs. Merriam. So many would welcome you back again. Do think over it. We can promise you a most enthusiastic audience. In fact, we might scheme out a short tour--all expenses paid and a handsome percentage on the takings. Your name would draw.” “You are mistaken,” said Irene frankly. “Besides----” “Oh, no,” he interrupted quickly. “Your name is so well known--all over England. People would run to see you. Putting things on a commercial basis, so long as people come, their object doesn’t matter.” Then Irene saw. For a moment, she gasped for breath. It was a calm proposal to make capital out of her notoriety. She rose and pressed the electric bell by her side, and turned upon him with flaming cheeks, and anger in her eyes. “How dare you!” she cried. The man took up his hat and broke into apologies. Jane appeared at the door. “Show this person out,” said Irene. The democratic delegate retired ignominiously. Irene walked about the room, mechanically rearranging perfectly orderly arranged trifles, in the feminine way, dazed with wrath and humiliation. A short while afterwards, she did not know whether to rage against the abandoned cynicism of the proposal, or to laugh cynically at her own touching simplicity in the matter of her former mental disquietude. In the midst of her anger arrived Elinor Cahusac on a flying call. Irene related the scene midway between tears and laughter. Mrs. Cahusac listened, sympathised, and, as soon as she reached her home, informed her husband of the insult that had been offered to Irene. And the next afternoon Cahusac, meeting Hugh by chance, in the Strand, repeated his wife’s story. An hour later Hugh was ringing furiously at Irene’s door. He found her sitting before the fire, with her writing-board on her lap. She raised startled eyes as he entered, laid his hat and stick on a table, and came to her side. She rose instinctively, leaving the board on the broad arm of the chair. “Is what Cahusac tells me true, Renie?” he cried impetuously--“about that scoundrel insulting you yesterday?” “I told Elinor something.” “And why did you not tell me last evening?” “What use would there be in worrying you for nothing?” she replied evasively.