good deal to her-enable her to start her boy in life properly, and relieve her from the strain of pot-boiling journalism; and then-well, after all (and he gave one of the old self-satisfied glances into the mirror), he wasn't altogether an unpleasant sort of fellow to be with, well set-up, a gentleman, whose appearance and manner would do no discredit even to a beautiful woman like Maud. And he reflected that so far as he could make out and he had

watched her closely enoughnone of these literary or scientific persons had made more progress than himself. She enjoyed their society; but he did not think any one of them had so far touched her heart. At any rate, he must put his fortunes to the test. Maud was going into the country for a holiday; it would be as well to know how things stood before she went. He must speak soon: why not at once-this very day?

He spent nearly two hours wandering about the Park and Kensington Gardens on a warm July afternoon before he could brace himself to take the decisive step. At length he found himself at Mrs Egerton's flat. The maid, Maud's only attendant, who opened the door to him, said that her mistress was not at home and she was

herself going out. But Mrs Egerton would come back to tea soon; would Mr Royle go in and wait? Ambrose went into the drawing-room which he had got to know so well during the past few weeks. It was a fairly spacious apartment, for it was situated in one of those blocks of mansions erected during the early period of the London flat-building era, when people were not as yet subdued to living in rabbithutches. Maud had broken the long rectilinear lines of the room by cutting off one corner with a high Japanese screen in black and gold; behind this

was a sofa, on which Royle sat down not unwillingly, for his walk and his mental struggle had left him fatigued. The maid had forgotten to open the windows, and the darkened room behind the close-drawn curtains felt a little oppressive on this sultry day. Ambrose allowed his head to sink back on the inviting cushions, and with half-shut eyes pondered over the coming interview until he gradually fell asleep.

He slept and he dreamed. It seemed to him that he was in a large, bare, unfamiliar hall, crowded with men roughly dressed in flannel shirts, high boots, and slouch hats. At one end there was a raised dais or low platform, and a table, behind which sat a person with a black coat and an air of authority; in front of this was another long table covered with legal-looking papers over which more black-coated men were bending. One was on his feet.

There was a look of gravity and strained expectation on every face. It dawned upon the dreamer that he was in a court of law in some remote country, watching the trial of a person charged with a serious crime. The prisoner? Ah, there he was in a little pen to the left of the attorney's table, a tall man, with a great drooping red moustache, a shock of tumbled red hair, and bloodshot eyes that glared round savagely like those of a bull at bay; beside him sat a sheriff or officer of some kind with a couple of big revolvers in his leather belt. Ambrose knew,

as

The

people know things in dreams, that the trial had reached its crucial stage: a witness was being examined whose evidence was conclusive against the accused. dreamer followed the angry gleam of the man's eyes across the table to the witness-stand; and he saw, without surprise (for in a dream we are seldom astonished), that the witness was none other than Maud Egerton. Very pale, she stood in her dress of dust-coloured cloth, her light figure drawn quietly erect, neat, composed, distinguished as ever; her clear low voice rang through the room as she answered a question of the cross-examining lawyer at the table. The music fell upon the watcher's ear, but the sense of the words escaped him. He saw, however, that they produced what is called a "sensation in the court; a curious look, half regret, half satisfaction, flitted across the impassive face of the judge;

a long-drawn "Ah!" escaped from the parted lips of some of the jurors leaning forward in their pew. Royle under

stood that the witness had said something which would send the red-eyed man in the dock to prison, perhaps to the gallows.

Then all was blurred behind the filmy curtain that drops capriciously on the confused dramas of Dreamland. But presently the scene cleared again. The witness box was empty now; but Royle saw Maud seated in the well of the court. The trial had reached its close; the judge had just pronounced the sentence. "Have you anything to say, prisoner, before you are removed to the cells?"

The red-haired man, clutching at the rail of the dock, spoke with a sudden hoarse shout.

"Say? I guess there ain't much to say. You have given me five years. Well, I'll do them. But there ain't an infernal day of them five years that I shall forget why I am there. It's her," and he turned and pointed a brown quivering finger at Maud, "it's that

darned Englishwoman there that did me in. What call was it of yours if I did shoot the boy? You came here and gave me away."

"I only told the truth," said Maud.

""Twarn't no business of your'n. I reckon you told the truth; and I reckon I'll tell you the truth now. You just wait till that five years is over. When I get free I shall square up the account with you, Mrs Egerton. You may quit

Colorado, you may go back to your blasted old Europe, but I shall find you out, you bet; and there'll be another shoot

ing then. I ain't going to have five years in hell for nothing."

And then the hoarse growl subsided to a murmur, and Ambrose Royle quietly awakened. He heard the sound of voices, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming still, for it was again the low clear tone of the witness in the Colorado court-house that fell upon his ear. Then the memory of the dream faded away; and with some confusion he perceived that he was overhearing a conversation at the other side of the screen in Mrs Egerton's sitting - room. It seemed awkward to declare himself abruptly: he hesitated and lay still, involuntarily listening.

"You know,”-it was Maud who spoke, "I cannot allow that sort of talk."

"You would, if you cared for me the least bit in the world."

The answer was in a masculine voice, which Royle recognised as that of a certain Wilfred Fennell, who was one of the little circle of Maud's intimate acquaintance. He was a good-looking man, who had been about the world a good deal, had done some soldiering and some not very successful pioneering and prospecting, and had become acquainted with John Egerton and his wife somewhere "at the back of beyond." It flashed upon Royle that Maud

"But that's precisely what I can't help doing, ma belle; and why shouldn't I? Why won't you let me tell you I want you to marry me?"

"Because you know that's quite absurd. You are even poorer than I am, and the two of us together would be paupers."

"I didn't think you were mercenary, Maud."

"I simply hate money, my dear friend, and everything connected with it; and that is why I cannot go back again to the sordid shifts and squalid experiences I knew too well with poor Jack. Besides, there's Roderick: I have to finish his education and set him going in life. pity you cannot get one of those nice little eight-hundreda-year posts, as secretary or manager or something, that you are always talking about!"

What a

"I am sure," said Fennell, "I have tried hard enough since I have been in London, and have badgered everybody I know. But they all want

"I didn't say that," said Maud; "I don't want riches. But you see, as things stand, you and I really cannot join our fortunes or misfortunes."

"Maud!" Wilfred broke out, "I believe you are going to marry Ambrose Royle."

She gave one of those clear light laughs that always made her seem like a girl.

"Don't be absurd, Wilfred. As if I could think of that poor old thing."

"If you come to that, he isn't so very much older than -some of us; and he's got a lot of money, and anybody can see that he just worships the ground you tread on."

"Tactful of you to remind me that I ought to have been on the shelf long ago! I know I am quite an antique; but Ambrose Royle is centuries older in reality than I shall ever be. You need not be jealous of him, you unreasonable person."

66

Well, he is always hanging about you, and you seem to like him well enough."

"I do," said Maud; "he is devoted to me, as you observe, and very kind and thoughtful, and quite useful, too. He thinks a great deal more of me, and perhaps a little less of himself, than-somebody I could mention."

"Great Scot! What's that?" ejaculated Wilfred with a start.

For at this stage of the proceedings it had occurred to the

VOL. CLXXXVI.—NO. MCXXV.

listener that he had heard quite enough of the conversation. His position was growing more and more uncomfortable; but it would have been disagreeable to come forward and interrupt the lovers with the announcement that he had been a party to their confidences. It seemed, on the whole, best to be discovered sleeping. So he quietly lay

back on the sofa in an attitude of profound repose, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and emitted an audible and wellmarked snore.

Fennell gazed upon his

hostess in consternation as the sound was repeated. Maud, whom nothing ruffled, replied tranquilly

66

Somebody behind the screen, I imagine. Luckily, he seems to be asleep. We may as well have a look at him."

They stole softly to the edge of the black and gold barrier, and beheld Ambrose reclining on the couch, his legs up, his head on the cushions, ostentatiously breathing with the regularity and emphasis of the man who slumbers deeply with his mouth open.

Maud's laugh rang out again, and Fennell exploded in a guffaw so boisterous that the sleeper had every excuse to awaken-which he did with much naturalness, sitting up and rubbing his eyes in artistic bewilderment.

"I hope you have slept well, Mr Royle," said Maud.

"I am so sorry," said Ambrose, starting up; "please excuse me. Your maid asked

H

me to wait for you, and I was tired, and so I suppose I dropped off."

"It is fortunate our chatter did not disturb your slumbers," said Maud. "Mr Fennell and I have had quite a lengthy conversation outside your dormitory."

"Oh, no!" Ambrose hastened "I-I have heard

to say. nothing. I must have been asleep for half an hour at least."

"Well, we had better have some tea. It keeps people awake, don't they say? Do you mind touching that electric bell just by you? My handmaiden ought to be back by this time."

But Ambrose would not accept the refreshment. He had only meant to come in for a few minutes just to ask if Maud had heard how Roderick had done in his examination. He really could not stay-had an engagement, and would be late for it in any case. "I'll leave you to go on with your talk," he could not forbear saying, and then hastily took himself away.

He found a taximeter and drove back to his rooms in disconsolate mood. He was angry with Maud, angry with Fennell, and profoundly disgusted with himself. "She's just a woman after all," he thought. "Here are all of us at her feet,

He looked at himself in the glass, no longer with complacency. The mask of artificial youthfulness seemed to have suddenly faded, and behind it peered the real face, with tired eyes and the weariness of the ignoble years. "She," he thought, "she is young, because her heart is young. And I—yes, I am a poor old thing! Quite true. What is there left? Dinner, I suppose. I had better go round to the club and get some.

He dressed slowly, trying to form bitter thoughts of Maud, as a preliminary to putting her out of his mind altogether so as to get back to his former stage of objective self-absorption. But the effort was a failure. He had to think of Maud, and he could not think badly of her; the loyalty born in the last few months would assert itself. "The Queen can do no wrong," he murmured at last; "and if a poor old thing can help her, he will have to do so still."

Entering the coffee-room at the club to find a place for dinner, he caught the eye of a

man sitting at one of the small tables by himself, the managng director of a great land