THE COLLECTED WORKS OF GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

cannot obey you in this matter, papa. I—”

      “That is enough,” said Mr. Lind, gravely, beginning, to busy himself with the writing materials. Marian for a moment seemed about to protest against this dismissal. Then she checked herself and went out of the room, closing the door quite quietly behind her, thereby unconsciously terrifying her father, who had calculated on a slam.

      “Well,” said Elinor, when her cousin rejoined her in the drawingroom: “have you been selfish and disobedient? Have you lacerated a father’s heart?”

      “He is thoroughly unfair,” said Marian. “However, it all comes to this: he is annoyed at my wanting to marry Ned: and I believe there will be no more peace for me until I am in a house of my own. What shall we do in the meantime? Where shall we go? I cannot stay here.”

      “Why not? Uncle Reginald will sulk; sit at dinner without speaking to us; and keep out of our way as much as he can. But you can talk to me: we neednt mind him. It is he who will be out in the cold, biting his nose to vex his face. Such a state of things is new to you; but I have survived weeks of it without a single sympathizer, and been none the worse, except, perhaps, in temper. He will pretend to be inexorable at first: then he will come down to wounded affection; and he will end by giving in.”

      “No, Nelly, I couldnt endure that sort of existence. If people cannot remain friends they should separate at once. I will not sleep in this house tonight.”

      “Hurrah!” cried Miss McQuinch. “That will be beginning the war with spirit. If I were in your place, I would stay and fight it out at close quarters. I would make myself so disagreeable that nobody can imagine what life in this house would be. But your plan is the best — if you really mean it.”

      “Certainly I mean it. Where shall we go, Nelly?”

      “Hm! I am afraid none of the family would make us very comfortable under the circumstances, except Marmaduke. It would be a splendid joke to go to West Kensington; only it would tell as much against us and Ned as against the Roman father. I have it! We will go to Mrs. Toplis’s in St. Mary’s Terrace: my mother always stays there when she is in town. Mrs. Toplis knows us: if she has a room to spare she will give it to us without making any bother.”

      “Yes, that will do. Are you ready to come now?”

      “If you can possibly wait five minutes I should like to put on my hat and change my boots. We will have to come back and pack up when we have settled about the room. We cannot go without clothes. I should like to have a nightdress, at least. Have you any money?”

      “I have the housekeeping money; but that, of course, I shall not take. I have thirty pounds of my own.”

      “And I have my old stocking, which contains nearly seventeen. Say fifty in round numbers. That will keep us going very comfortably for a month.”

      “Ridiculous! It will last longer than that. Oh!”

      “Well?”

      “We mustnt go, after all. I forgot you.”

      “What of me?”

      “Where will you go when I am married? You cant live by yourself; and papa may not welcome you back if you take my part against him.”

      “He would not, in any case; so it makes no difference to me. I can go home if the worst comes to the worst. It does not matter: my present luxurious existence must come to an end some time or another, whether we go to Mrs. Toplis’s or not.”

      “I am sure Ned will not object to your continuing with me, if I ask him.”

      “No, poor fellow! He wont object — at first; but he might not like it. You have no right to inflict me on him. No: I stick to my resolution on that point. Send for the carriage. It is time for us to be off; and Mrs. Toplis will be more impressed if we come in state than if we trudge afoot.”

      “Hush,” said Marian, who was standing near the window. “Here is George, with a face full of importance.”

      “Uncle Reginald has written to him,” said Elinor.

      “Then the sooner we go, the better,” said Marian.

      “I do not care to have the whole argument over again with George.”

      As they passed through the hall on their way out they met the clergyman.

      “Well, George,” said Elinor, “how are the heathen getting on in

       Belgravia? You look lively.”

      “Are you going out, Marian,” he said, solemnly, disregarding his cousin’s banter.

      “We are going to engage a couple of rooms for some errant members of the family,” said Elinor. “May we give you as a reference?”

      “Certainly. I may want to speak to you before I go, Marian. When will you return?”

      “I do not know. Probably we shall not be long. You will have plenty of opportunities, in any case.”

      “Will you walk into the study, please, sir,” said the parlormaid.

      The Rev. George was closeted with his father for an hour. When he came out, he left the house, and travelled by omnibus to Westbourne Grove, whence he walked to a house in Uxbridge Road. Here he inquired for Mr. Conolly, and, learning that he had just come in, sent up a card. He was presently ushered into a comfortable room, with a pleasant view of the garden. A meal of tea, wheatcakes, and fruit was ready on the table. Conolly greeted his visitor cordially, and rang for another cup. The Rev. George silently noted that his host dined in the middle of the day and had tea in the evening. Afraid though as he was of Conolly, he felt strengthened in his mission by these habits, quite out of the question for Marian. The tea also screwed up his courage a little; but he talked about the electro-motor in spite of himself until the cloth was removed, when Conolly placed two easy chairs opposite one another at the window; put a box of cigarets on a little table close at hand; and invited his visitor to smoke. But as it was now clearly time to come to business, the cigaret was declined solemnly. So Conolly, having settled himself in an easy attitude, waited for the clergyman to begin. The Rev. George seemed at a loss.

      “Has your father spoken to you about an interview he had with me this morning?” said Conolly, goodnaturedly helping him out.

      “Yes. That, in fact, is one of the causes of my visit.”

      “What does he say?”

      “I believe he adheres to the opinion he expressed to you. But I fear he may not have exhibited that selfcontrol in speaking to you which I fully admit you have as much right to expect as anyone else.”

      “It does not matter. I can quite understand his feeling.”

      “It does matter — pardon me. We should be sorry to appear wanting in consideration for you.”