good of him.  But now my eyes have been opened.  I’ll tell you just how it was.  We were sitting here, just as you and I are now, at afternoon tea; the talk had flagged a little, and for the sake of something to say I made some remark about Bulgaria—not that I really knew anything about it, you know, for I’m no politician; still, I knew it was a subject that would make talk just now.  My dear, I assure you I was positively frightened.  All in a minute his face changed, his eyes flashed, he broke into such a torrent of abuse as I never heard in my life before.”

“Do you mean that he abused you?”

“Dear me, no! but Russia and the Czar, and tyranny and despotism, and many other things I had never heard of.  I tried to calm him down and reason with him, but I might as well have reasoned with the cockatoo in the window.  At last he caught himself up quickly in the middle of a sentence, strode over to the piano, and began to play as he generally does, you know, when he comes here.  Well, would you believe it, my dear! instead of improvising or playing operatic airs as usual, he began to play a stupid little tune which every child was taught years ago, of course with variations of his own.  Then he turned round on the music-stool with the oddest smile I ever saw, and said, “Do you know that air, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

“Yes,” I said; “but I forget now what it is.’”

“It was composed by Pestal, one of the victims of Russian tyranny,” said he.  “The executioner did his work badly, and Pestal had to be strung up twice.  In the interval he was heard to mutter, ‘Stupid country, where they don’t even know how to hang!’”

“Then he gave a little forced laugh, got up quickly, wished me good-bye, and was gone before I could put in a word.”

“What a horrible story to tell in a drawing-room!” said Lena Houghton.  “I envy Gertrude less than ever.”

“Poor girl!  What a sad prospect it is for her!” said Mrs. O’Reilly with a sigh.  “Of course, my dear, you’ll not repeat what I have just told you.”

“Not for the world!” said Lena Houghton emphatically.  “It is perfectly safe with me.”

The conversation was here abruptly ended, for the page threw open the drawing-room door and announced ‘Mr. Zaluski.’

“Talk of the angel,” murmured Mrs. O’Reilly with a significant smile at her companion.  Then skilfully altering the expression of her face, she beamed graciously on the guest who was ushered into the room, and Lena Houghton also prepared to greet him most pleasantly.

I looked with much interest at Sigismund Zaluski, and as I looked I partly understood why Miss Houghton had been prejudiced against him at first sight.  He had lived five years in England, and nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.  He had had his silky black hair closely cropped in the very hideous fashion of the present day; he wore the ostentatiously high collar now in vogue; and he tried to be sedulously English in every respect.  But in spite of his wonderfully fluent speech and almost perfect accent, there lingered about him something which would not harmonise with that ideal of an English gentleman which is latent in most minds.  Something he lacked, something he possessed, which interfered with the part he desired to play.  The something lacking showed itself in his ineradicable love of jewellery and in a transparent habit of fibbing; the something possessed showed itself in his easy grace of movement, his delightful readiness to amuse and to be amused, and in a certain cleverness and rapidity of idea rarely, if ever, found in an Englishman.

He was a little above the average height and very finely built; but there was nothing striking in his aquiline features and dark grey eyes, and I think Miss Houghton spoke truly when she said that he was ‘Not even good-looking.’  Still, in spite of this, it was a face which grew upon most people, and I felt the least little bit of regret as I looked at him, because I knew that I should persistently haunt and harass him, and should do all that could be done to spoil his life.

Apparently he had forgotten all about Russia and Bulgaria, for he looked radiantly happy.  Clearly his thoughts were engrossed with his own affairs, which, in other words, meant with Gertrude Morley; and though, as I have since observed, there are times when a man in love is an altogether intolerable sort of being, there are other times when he is very much improved by the passion, and regards the whole world with a genial kindliness which contrasts strangely with his previous cool cynicism.

“How delightful and home-like your room always looks!” he exclaimed, taking the cup of tea which Mrs. O’Reilly handed to him.  “I am horribly lonely at Ivy Cottage.  This house is a sort of oasis in the desert.”

“Why, you are hardly ever at home, I thought,” said Mrs. O’Reilly, smiling.  “You are the lion of the neighbourhood just now; and I’m sure it is very good of you to come in and cheer a lonely old woman.  Are you going to play me something rather more lively to-day?”

He laughed.

“Ah!  Poor Pestal!  I had forgotten all about our last meeting.”

“You were very much excited that day,” said Mrs. O’Reilly.  “I had no idea that your political notions—”

He interrupted her

“Ah! no politics to-day, dear Mrs. O’Reilly.  Let us have nothing but enjoyment and harmony.  See, now, I will play you something very much more cheerful.”

And sitting down to the piano, he played the bridal march from ‘Lohengrin,’ then wandered off into an improvised air, and finally treated them to some recollections of the ‘Mikado.’

Lena-Houghton watched him thoughtfully as she put on her gloves; he was playing with great spirit, and the words of the opera rang in her ears:—

For he’s going to marry Yum-yum, Yum-yum,
And so you had better be dumb, dumb, dumb!

I knew well enough that she would not follow this moral advice, and I laughed to myself because the whole scene was such a hollow mockery.  The placid benevolent-looking old lady leaning back in her arm-chair; the girl in her blue gingham and straw hat preparing to go to the afternoon service; the happy lover entering heart and soul into Sullivan’s charming music; the pretty room with its Chippendale furniture, its æsthetic hangings, its bowls of roses; and the sound of church bells wafted through the open window on the soft summer breeze.

Yet all the time I lingered there unseen, carrying with me all sorts of dread possibilities.  I had been introduced into the world, and even if Mrs. O’Reilly had been willing to admit to herself that she had broken the ninth commandment, and had earnestly desired to recall me, all her sighs and tears and regrets would have availed nothing; so true is the saying, “Of thy word unspoken thou art master; thy spoken word is master of thee.”

“Thank you.”  “Thank you.”  “How I envy your power of playing!”

The two ladies seemed to vie with each other in making pretty speeches, and Zaluski, who loved music and loved giving pleasure, looked really pleased.  I am sure it did not enter his head that his two companions were not sincere, or that they did not wish him well.  He was thinking to himself how simple and kindly the Muddleton people were, and how great a contrast this life was to his life in London; and he was saying to himself that he had been a fool to live a lonely bachelor life till he was nearly thirty, and yet congratulating himself that he had done so since Gertrude was but nineteen.  Undoubtedly, he was seeing blissful visions of the future all the time that he replied to the pretty speeches, and shook hands with Lena Houghton, and opened the drawing-room door for her, and took out his watch to assure her that she had plenty of time and need not hurry to church.

Poor Zaluski!  He looked so