“I wonder how it is to be done,” he said, lying back in his chair. His promise was given. He would have unquestioningly married his fair antagonist of Baker Street had his father so commanded. But all the same it was not without uneasiness that he contemplated his mission. And as for the girl he had undertaken to save, he assured himself that he took no interest whatever in her destiny. ***** To celebrate the engagement, Lady Milmo held a great reception to which came crowds of distinguished and undistinguished persons, but it was characteristic of her gatherings that the former far outnumbered the latter. The air hummed with congratulations and with laudations of Art. Sylvester, moving sardonically through the press, felt like a visitor dazed by the whirl of a great unfamiliar factory. He confessed the feeling to an acquaintance who fluttered between the two worlds of art and science. “The manufactory of artificial ideals,” laughed the latter, having also to maintain a reputation for epigram. The wit stayed to speak with a friend, and Sylvester tried to edge his way towards the further end of the room where Ella stood talking with a couple of men. From where he was he could see that she looked more than usually beautiful. Her face was flushed, her eyes held the light of enthusiasm, her young figure in a simple white silk dress stood out proud and defiant against the darkness of an open window. It recalled vividly to his mind her attitude when long, long ago she had passionately expressed her faith in the glory of the world. His lips twitched in a half-smile. All around him he heard snatches of conversation in which the engagement was alluded to. A man cast doubts on Roderick's solvency. A girl declared she would just as soon marry a steam-organ. A lean, anxious woman with a mechanical grin ecstaticised over the union. The Art Colony was discussed on all sides. Presently Roderick, resplendent in a great white bow that fell half over his shirt-front and almost hid a topaz solitaire, caught sight of him and hailed him with a southern wave of his hand. “My dear comrade,” he cried as soon as he was within hand-shaking range of Sylvester, “it does my heart good to see you here to share our joy. Have you spoken to her yet? There she is-- 'Oh, she is fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!' Isn't she? A throbbing moment, _amigo_.” “I'm glad to see you so much in love,” said Sylvester. “It's refreshing.” “Cynic!” said Roderick. “That's why your hair is turning grey. Look at mine,--fresh as a rose in June. And I'm older than you.” “How's the Utopia?” “Colossal. Come, I'll introduce you to Sir Decimus Bland. Lady Derring has fixed me with her glassy eye, and I must obey her call. Sir Decimus, let me present my oldest and most valued friend, Dr. Sylvester Lanyon, the terror of bacilli.”