Street, at nine—or say half-past nine?" she said.

"Yes, madam," I answered, "I could easily be there by half-past nine."

"Then would you call at No. 41 York Place at half-past nine to-night?"

"Certainly, madam."

"Now one word," she said. "Ask for Miss Grey when the door is opened. But do not tell any one about this interview. You will see to-night why you ought not to do so in your own interest. In the meantime keep your own counsel. You will promise me that?"

"Certainly, madam."

"You remember the address—or had you not better take it down?"

"Not at all, madam; the address is No. 41 York Place; Baker Street."

"Then I shall expect you at half-past nine o'clock. Good-bye."

She bowed, and, turning round the corner of Cavendish Place, walked quickly toward Regent Street.

Was I married, or was there any one that I thought of marrying? What could she mean, I wondered, as I looked for a moment after the slight and graceful figure? My coming to see her that evening must have something to do with my marrying somebody? Was it herself? If so, would I marry her? I never thought for a moment about money in connection with the matter. Partly on account of the veil she wore, partly from the strangeness and hurry of our interview, and my own bashfulness, I had not seen her face, at least not so as to be able to form any picture of it. And yet, there was no doubt in my mind as to the answer. Marry her? Why, already I was madly in love with her. In love with a woman whose face you have never clearly seen? It may seem absurd, but so it was. I could not recognize her face since I had never really seen it. But the erect and graceful form, and the dignified carriage of the head, I could have recognized amongst ten thousand figures, and with the mind that gave the grace and loveliness to her presence and words, I felt that I was in love forever. How far all this was due to the effect of the peculiar circumstances of our interview on my imagination, at that time of life when the imagination is most powerful, and how long my passion would have lasted if things had taken any ordinary course, I cannot say; but for the present I was, in downright earnest, madly in love with a form, a voice, and a presence, to which my fancy, taking the key from the little of the face that I had seen, added a countenance whose loveliness and wisdom and purity the mere imagination could not bring into being.

So I went on to Wimpole Street, where I delivered the parcel, and then returned to Holborn, speculating all the way on the one momentous question, Whom did she want me to marry? Was it herself? Now I had learned in what somebody has termed the University of Adversity an art which appears to me to be of even greater practical importance than the arts that are taught at the better-endowed universities. It was the art of taking a candid and unprejudiced view of my own affairs. And, before I got back to Mr. Conder's, my facility in this art had assured me that, whatever might be the ultimate solution of the mystery, there was not, as far as she was concerned, a scintilla of love in the matter. For a few minutes I had some idea of its being a case of love at first sight on her part. But on a little reflection I saw that the quiet business-like manner in which she had asked her questions, and made the appointment, were quite inconsistent with the enthusiasm and self-forgetfulness which accompany the sentiments that arise from love.

After what seemed to me to be the longest evening I had ever known, I found myself at the door of 41 York Place.

Then a question arose that gave me keen anxiety for a minute or two. Ought I to ring or knock? To ring seemed timid—almost cowardly. Yet what sort of knock could I give? As a messenger from a shop I had no right to give other than that single knock which had often given me so much anguish. Coming on such an invitation such a knock was clearly out of place. And yet a double knock—at least a loud one—might seem presumptuous—seem imperative. So at last I gave a knock which I intended to be a very quiet double knock, but which, I am afraid, was a very queer and tremulous one, and in a minute or so the door was opened by a maid-servant.

"Is Miss Grey——" I was going, in my nervousness, to say "at home," but I checked myself and substituted the more general particle "in?"

"She will be here in a few minutes, sir. Will you walk into the parlor?"

"Sir!" I had not been addressed as such before since a time that seemed like a phase of my being in another world. She showed me across the hall into a large room that was only partly lighted by an oil-lamp on a round table, and said:

"Will you be seated, sir? Miss Grey will be here in a minute or two." Saying this, she closed the door.

It was a large room, papered with a rich but gloomy-looking red paper. Several bookcases stood against the walls, stored as far as I could see with well-bound volumes. The furniture was simple but massive. Two or three substantial-looking arm-chairs, several equally substantial-looking ordinary chairs, a mantel-piece of solid-looking marble on which were a few somber-looking ornaments, and a marble clock, and in the center of the room, a heavy round mahogany table on which were a few books, and the lamp, which seemed only to show the darkness of the room. I sat down with a palpitating heart, for there was something weird about the whole scene. It was twenty-seven minutes past nine by the clock when the servant shut the door, so that I was three minutes before my time. The minute hand of the clock was just pointing to the half-hour when a carriage drove up to the house, and a minute afterward the hall-door opened, and then a tall female figure glided noiselessly into the room, and, having shut the parlor door, said, as I rose:

"Please be seated; you must excuse me for wearing this veil until we have finished a conversation which I shall make as brief as possible."

I recognized the voice of Miss Grey, but it was if anything more calm than when we parted. I sat down again on a chair at some distance from the table, whilst the lady drew her chair near to the table and took out of her pocket a notebook and pencil. She had on a cloak that hid her form, but I thought I could detect the same grace and dignity of carriage.

"As we are strangers," she continued, "you will, I hope, pardon me for making a remark that would otherwise be highly impertinent. But your conduct to-day has satisfied me that in speaking to you I am speaking to a high-minded gentleman, who, if he should decline the proposition which I am going to make, will at least feel in honor bound to observe silence both about this interview and the names I shall have to mention."

I bowed. This speech, with what had preceded it, taught me more of the art of love—an art that the reader will find, if he cares to follow my fortunes, was to become useless to me—than Ovid and all the other poets and philosophers could have done. It is not beauty, any more than dress or wealth, that creates affection, it is manner; and the essence of that manner which produces the mystic complex emotion which we denote by the term "love" is that it is an exposition of genuine deference for the individual—for himself or herself alone—and apart from all such accidents as rank, or wealth, or position. I therefore bowed, and she proceeded.

"My solicitor is Mr. Chambers, of 52 Bedford Row. You will find that he is a gentleman who holds the highest position in his profession. Another friend of mine who would act in this matter is Mr. Charles Duke, of Duke, Furnival & Company, the well-known bankers of Lombard Street. Now I have asked you to come here to-night to put this question to you. Would you marry me within the next week or fortnight, and promise on your word of honor never