'What a surprising visit!' was Christian's exclamation, when he and his sister were alone. 'How did she find us?'
'Directory, I suppose.'
'A lady doctor!' he mused.
'And a very capable one, I fancy,' said Marcella. 'We had nearly an hour's talk before you came. But she won't be able to stand the work. There'll be another breakdown before long.'
'Has she a large practice, then?'
'Not very large, perhaps; but she studies as well. I never dreamt of Janet becoming so interesting a person.'
Christian had to postpone till after dinner the talk he purposed about Mrs. Palmer. When that time came, he was no longer disposed for sentimental confessions; it would be better to wait until he could announce a settled project of marriage. Through the evening, his sister recurred to the subject of Janet with curious frequency, and on the following day her interest had suffered no diminution. Christian had always taken for granted that she understood the grounds of the breach between him and his uncle; without ever unbosoming himself, he had occasionally, in his softer moments, alluded to the awkward subject in language which he thought easy enough to interpret. Now at length, in reply to some remark of Marcella's, he said with significant accent:
'Janet was very friendly to me.'
'She has studied science for ten years,' was his sister's comment.
'Yes, and can forgive a boy's absurdities.'
'Easier to forgive, certainly, than those of a man,' said Marcella, with a curl of the lip.
Christian became silent, and went thoughtfully away.
A week later, he was again in Mrs. Palmer's drawing-room, where again he met an assemblage of people such as seemed to profane this sanctuary. To be sure--he said to himself--Constance could not at once get rid of the acquaintances forced upon her by her husband; little by little she would free herself. It was a pity that her sister and her niece--persons anything but intelligent and refined--should be permanent members of her household; for their sake, no doubt, she felt constrained to welcome men and women for whose society she herself had little taste. But when the year of her widowhood was past----Petrarch's Laura was the mother of eleven children; Constance had had only three, and one of these was dead. The remaining two, Christian now learnt, lived with a governess in a little house at Bournemouth, which Mrs. Palmer had taken for that purpose.
'I'm going down to see them to-morrow,' she informed Christian, 'and I shall stay there over the next day. It's so quiet and restful.'
These words kept repeating themselves to Christian's ear, as he went home, and all through the evening. Were they not an invitation? Down there at Bournemouth, Constance would be alone the day after to-morrow. 'It is so quiet and restful;' that was to say, no idle callers would break upon her retirement; she would be able to welcome a friend, and talk reposefully with him. Surely she must have meant that; for she spoke with a peculiar intonation--a look----
By the second morning he had worked himself up to a persuasion that yonder by the seaside Constance was expecting him. To miss the opportunity would be to prove himself dull of apprehension, a laggard in love. With trembling hands, he hurried through his toilet and made haste downstairs to examine a railway time-table. He found it was possible to reach Bournemouth by about two o'clock, a very convenient hour; it would allow him to take refreshment, and walk to the house shortly after three.
His conviction strong as ever, he came to the journey's end, and in due course discovered the pleasant little house of which Constance had spoken. At the door, his heart failed him; but retreat could not now be thought of. Yes, Mrs. Palmer was at home. The servant led him into a sitting-room on the ground floor, took his name, and left him.
It was nearly ten minutes before Constance appeared. On her face he read a frank surprise.
'I happened to--to be down here; couldn't resist the temptation'----
'Delighted to see you, Mr. Moxey. But how did you know I was here?'
He gazed at her.
'You--don't you remember? The day before yesterday--in Sussex Square--you mentioned'----
'Oh, did I?' She laughed. 'I had quite forgotten.'
Christian sank upon his chair. He tried to convince himself that she was playing a part; perhaps she thought that she had been premature in revealing her wish to talk with him.
Mrs. Palmer was good-natured. This call evidently puzzled her, but she did not stint her hospitality. When Christian asked after the children, they were summoned; two little girls daintily dressed, pretty, affectionate with their mother. The sight of them tortured Christian, and he sighed deeply with relief when they left the room. Constance appeared rather absent; her quick glance at him signified something, but he could not determine what. In agony of constraint, he rose as if to go.
'Oh, you will have a cup of tea with me,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'It will be brought in a few minutes.'
Then she really wished him to stop. Was he not behaving like an obtuse creature? Why, everything was planned to encourage him.
He talked recklessly of this and that, and got round to the years long gone by. When the tea came, he was reviving memories of occasions on which he and she had met as young people. Constance laughed merrily, declared she could hardly remember.
'Oh, what a time ago!--But I was quite a child.'
'No--indeed, no! You were a young lady, and a brilliant one.'
The tea seemed to intoxicate him. He noticed again that Constance glanced at him significantly. How good of her to allow him this delicious afternoon!
'Mr. Moxey,' she said, after meditating a little, 'why haven't you married? I should have thought you would have married long ago.'
He was stricken dumb. Her jerky laugh came as a shock upon his hearing.
'Married----?'
'What is there astonishing in the idea?'
'But--I--how can I answer you?'
The pretty, characterless face betrayed some unusual feeling. She looked at him furtively; seemed to suppress a tendency to laugh.
'I mustn't pry into secrets,' she simpered.
'But there is no secret!' Christian panted, laying down his teacup for fear he should drop it. 'Whom should I--could I have married?'
Constance also put aside her cup. She was bewildered, and just a little abashed. With courage which came he knew not whence, Christian bent forward and continued speaking:
'Whom could I marry after that day when I met you in the little drawing-room at the Robinsons'?'
She stared in genuine astonishment, then was embarrassed.
'You cannot--cannot have forgotten----?'
'You surely don't mean to say, Mr. Moxey, that you have remembered? Oh, I'm afraid I was a shocking flirt in those days!'
'But I mean _after_ your marriage--when I found you in tears'----
'Please, please don't remind me!' she exclaimed, giggling nervously. 'Oh how silly!--of me, I mean. To think that--but you are making fun of me, Mr. Moxey?'
Christian rose and went to the window. He was not only shaken by his tender emotions--something very like repugnance had begun to affect him. If Constance were feigning, it was in very bad taste; if she spoke with