Kate obeys. Never has she played so brilliantly, so pathetically. Heaven seems open to Laurence he listens spellbound, and falls in love.

Is not all falling in love, when it is worth anything, a sudden intoxication? One gaze, deep, magnetic, electrifying, as Romeo's first glance at Juliet; and Laurence, unconsciously acknowledging the might of hidden changeless love, believes this woman, in some way or other, will be his destiny.

And Kate? She has never felt so happy, so infatuated in her life; some one understands and appreciates her for the first time. Laurence will never care for Kate more than at this moment, and never less. It is in truth a fact he has not exactly realised, but it exists all the same. This man of eight-andthirty, who has hitherto escaped the thraldom of any feminine empire, finds his soul now fettered by the influence of a surrender at once tyrannical and potent.

But there is Ernest in the doorway eyeing them both. Ernest is never jealous, he is too stupid for that, but having won at pool, he is for a wonder in a charmingly good humour; he invites Laurence forthwith to his house to dine with them, and says he has some incomparable Sauterne. Laurence is wealthy, courted, esteemed; he may win his money at écarté, and find him generally useful. Laurence prudently vacates his chair by Kateshe is too delightful-and amuses an amiable spinster with an account of a charitable bazaar, a fancy-dress ball, and some fashionable charades and tableaux vivants. Kate forgets every care, disappointment, and insult, and only remembers the future strikes her as a less tedious prospect generally, and that she must really keep up her practising.

'And now, Katie, begin to pack up,' says Ernest, trying to be

jocose, 'and mind you don't keep me waiting in the cold.'

Laurence smokes strong cigars on his return home till after midnight, and reads a portion of a new German romance. He is in the mood for love's metaphysics.

But Kate is the sort of glorious creature who makes all other women appear small and mean in comparison-a Muse born in Olympus, to be placed between the Héloïses and Mirandas, breathing the fine and perfect light and exalted splendour of another sphere. There are no villain's instincts in Laurence, but he cannot forget Mrs. Hamilton.

'Thank Heaven,' he cries, with unguarded impetuosity, as the dawn breaks slowly through his windowblinds, 'we live in an age of rapid locomotion and the Divorce Court!'

CHAPTER VI.

A CONCERT AT ST. JAMES'S HALL. 'I turn to thee, as some green afternoon Turns to the sunset, and is loth to die.'

FULLY conscious of the danger that jeopardises his peace of mind, in being constantly thrown into the company of the fascinating Mrs. Hamilton, Laurence wisely resolves to leave Surbiton for at least six months, and refuse Ernest's friendly invitations to dinner.

Kate is lost to him-of that he is perfectly aware; and he is not the ma to glide into another's home by stealth, and, by treacherous cunning, blast the happiness and honour of even an enemy's domestic hearth. He feels he may gain a decided influence over Kate, for either good or evil; she is a natural, fresh, impressionable creature; and Ernest-well, to say the least of it, appears extremely unsuited to her.

Kate heard of Laurence's disappearance with mingled surprise and disappointment. He had promised to look over her pictures, give her hints, correct her drawings, and so on. Kate had brightened at the suggestion, for the mornings at Surbiton were often overpoweringly dull, and nothing is more delightful than an artistic tête-à-tête between two people who, with ideas and tastes in common, find an all-absorbing pleasure in some particular art at once elevating and refining in its influence. But Laurence, if he found Kate irresistible at a dinner-party and in a drawingroom, would surely find her ten times more angelic surrounded by paintings and-alone. (There is a mysterious attraction in that little word.) She would seem to belong to him then, to be part and parcel of his particular world-the bright star of his hopes. His vivid fancy would revel in glowing dreamsdaring flights, in which he imagined Kate aiding and counselling him in his work. Her poetic instinct, her grasp of a subject, stirred his soul with most injurious regret and pain; nay, there were times when he half resolved to fling prudence to the winds, and, defying danger and Mrs. Grundy, confess himself her lover and her slave. Life seemed a dreary blank without her.

Meanwhile, existence drags wearily for Mrs. Hamilton. She has exhausted all her stock of patience regarding Ernest, and her hopes of redeeming him from the paths of iniquity have all been rudely dispersed. One might as well seek to tame a tiger with endearments and lemonade, or a rattlesnake with tea-cakes, as Ernest with kindness or sympathy. His low development of brain made him invulnerable to everything. He loved torture; and today, having returned earlier than

usual from the office, and finding his dinner exactly four minutes late, he has at last a pretext for wrath, which makes him rub his hands together, inwardly chuckling at the coming scene.

It is the month of June. Kate has been married nearly a year, and is now dressing. Her back hair is waving roughly over her shoulders, and, arrayed in a pale blue-silk dressing-gown (she has a weakness for elegant and luxurious robes de chambre), her arms bare, she looks as handsome as Proserpine, and with very much the same troubled expression that young woman's face may have worn after stealing the pomegra

nate.

Hearing Ernest's voice, Kate turns a shade paler. Good Heavens! if cook should be late with the salmon! Yes, there is six o'clock striking. She is so frightened she runs out on to the landing and clasps her hands, as Ernest commences his judicious

row.

'Cook will never bear it,' murmurs Kate; 'she told me if he ever nagged, she would go and such a treasure!—the only woman we ever had who could make white soup and a perfect salmi.'

'I'm just telling those infernal servants of yours, madam, they must be more punctual!' cries Ernest, pirouetting out of the pantry with a sprinkle of flour on his neck, while cook lingers threateningly at the door; or go they shall! Here am I-tired, sick, and hungry-working all day to keep you all in idleness-rank idleness-and the bread-winner has to wait for his dinner. D-d hard lines! Come down, d'ye hear? I insist upon it!'

Kate descends. The colour is in her cheeks, an angry hectic flush that Ernest remarks. He will very likely strike her present

ly. She shudders away from him with a painful gesture of aversion.

'A nice domestic treasure you are!' says Ernest sarcastically, and when sarcastic he is generally sober, has won at pool, and has stopped at his second pick-meup.' 'I had my doubts of your value as a wife all along, they were so deuced glad to get rid of you at home. Your mother knew what you were, with your painting and music. Now, how could I have spotted my best black waistcoat with the turtle at White's ?'

Kate laughs-not merrily, but as a defiant criminal might laugh in a dock with a merciless judge awarding punishment.

'So you mock me, do you?' cries Ernest, seizing her wrist. 'I should have thought you'd have found that didn't pay you by this time.'

'Don't be angry, dear Ernest,' she says soothingly. She has been told, poor child, to throw oil on troubled water, and that men, hungry, savage, and tired, waiting for their dinner, should be labelled 'Dangerous-approach with care and caution.' 'We didn't expect you home quite so soon, you see, or else'

'Well, here's something to make you remember better next time,' says Ernest, striking her over the shoulder with his cane; 'that will freshen your memory.'

But at that moment, as the housemaid enters with the salmon and inadvertently drops the silver cover off the potatoes with a crash on the floor, Kate turns and flies. It is painful to appear ridiculous or injured before a servant.

Ernest instantly waxes repentant at aspect of the food. It is a magnificent salmon, boiled to a nicety. The cucumber melts him. He rushes after Kate, begs her pardon, and there is an end of it.

Dinner passes without any par

ticular crisis. The melted butter is not lumpy. Ernest has news for Kate, which he defers till the arrival of the dessert, and then says abruptly,

'How would you like to go to a concert at St. James's Hall tonight?' With you?'

What a contrast they present— the one all flesh, the other all spirit!

'Well, no-I might look in later on. I can't stand more than an hour of that infernal jargon. I've seen Hesseltine again-fact is, I won three hundred of him last night at loo, and he gave me a cheque for the amount on the spot. Never saw such a fellow-can't put him out of temper.'

Laurence Hesseltine !

Ernest is cracking an awkward Brazilian nut, and does not notice his wife. He continues inanely:

'So Laurence will call here at seven to take you to the concertthat is, if you care to go. I believe he admires you immensely, thinks you're beautiful, and thrown away on me, and all that; but husbands never see these things in the right light. You must live with persons to know what they are, and the genius of the parlour is always a failure in the kitchen.'

'Then perhaps I'd better change my dress,' says Kate shyly, conscious of tumultuous joy, feeling herself a girl again, or a bird escaping from its wires.

'All right,' assents Ernest; 'pass me the Chartreuse and the Times, and I'll smoke till you come down.'

How sudden and singular are our mental transports! Kate forgets Ernest's ugly blow, and at least only remembers it when she discovers she will have to wear a high dress at the concert. There is something of the unrestrained grace and mirthfulness of early

April-like girlhood in Kate's movements. She leans over her mirror (what charming woman ever forgets to consult that trusty ally ?), and wonders if Laurence will look at her again with that steady, wondering, lingering gaze. Kate's pulses leap at the thought-dangerous leaps, that make her sigh a little as she seeks for her gloves, jewelry, and fan. But which dress? She flings half a dozen on the bed and rings for Sarah. She will take that maiden's opinion on the matter -she cannot trust herself in the choice-her brain feels confusedshe wishes to please him. Yes, it has come to this miserable pass with Kate !-who, acknowledging his influence, blaming herself for her crass folly and stupidity, feels warm blushes mantle to her cheek while she smiles dreamily-a picture to entrance the most cynical misanthrope.

Sarah, hastily pouncing on a pink poult de soie, heavily trimmed with costly white lace, declares missus couldn't do better than wear that one. It is cut a little carré in front, and some rich point d'Alençon is tacked round the neck and sleeves. It is the richest costliest dress in her trousseau; and being the first time she has worn it, Kate looks like a princess. Is it happiness that brings the enchanting sparkle to her eyes? The lids tremble slightly, like unblown snowdrops fanned by a spring breeze; and the lips have lost the chiselled firmness of that old troubled pain which makes them usually close in a stern hard line. Did some voice murmur-as voices will do, even in the most desponding moments of the lives of the wretched-Wait! you will be loved some day as a woman-as an artist desires? There will come hours of fond exultant rapture, when the cup of life will be quaffed in all its joyous richness -when roseate gleams of hope

and joy will disperse the dull shadows-the mere rehearsal of living-which the cold present contains, and you will be robed for happiness, absorbed in that mighty exaltation, that fatal affinity through which men and women die.

She looked so fresh and beautiful as she entered the dining-roomfern-leaves and pale blush-roses tipped with dew in her hair-that Ernest, who had dipped rather freely into the Chartreuse, mentally congratulated himself on his selection of Kate, as a wife, for the first time. His wide mouth opens a little wider in admiration as she approaches him, nothing bitter or hopeless in his voice or aspect, as she asks him to fasten the snap of her pearl bracelet.

'By Jove, Katie, you do look well to-night! I always said you were a fine girl, the finest girl in Clapham Park now didn't I? Come and give me a kiss.'

Laurence soon after drives up in a neat brougham and pair, faultless taste in horses and livery. Fate, he vows, has thrown him in this woman's path again. Ernest will win his money at loo, and invite him daily and pertinaciously to his villa. How could he resist seeing Kate once more, after the long cold absence of months? Nature has conquered principle, and Laurence is conducting Kate to an evening

concert.

As Kate, encased in a graycoloured opera-cloak trimmed with fur, throws herself into a corner of the snug brougham, and Laurence stoops to pick up her dainty lace handkerchief and admire some pink azaleas she wears at her breast, they are both silent-oppressively SO. Kate exerts herself to the utmost. She says the cleverest things in the world with the graceful chic and abandon of a child. Her persiflage is light, brilliant, and ravishing, and Laurence for the

second time completely loses his head.

How utterly imprudent to have thrown himself again into danger! He thinks of the hackneyed simile of the moth and the candle; but it is too late, his wings are consumed, the bizarre light of this particular star has beguiled him from earth at last.

Laurence was one of those rare and interesting specimens of humanity who could love one woman only, and find earth a desert without her presence. There was nothing heartless or gregarious in Laurence; there was no trace of the profligate in him. His intellectual nature-fed from the fount

of a keen and cold mind-made him strangely critical in his judgments, severe in his views, profound in his passions. A cynical man of the world would have flirted with Kate for a couple of seasons, and then sipped the sweets of some other pretty woman's eyes. But not so Laurence. Till he had met Kate he had never discovered any woman worth loving; but this ideal abstraction, as absorbing as the worship of a poet, was far more fascinating to the mind of such a man as Laurence Hesseltine than a hundred facile amours. Fastidious and reserved, epicurean in his principles, a voluptuary in his ultra-refinement, an artist to the core, a man of high attainments and rare personal beauty, he would have been a problem to the multitude; but then chronic roueism is, we know, seldom hypercritical. Viewing women from a lofty standard, love would attack such a nature with fierceness and vehemence.

At last they arrive at St. James's Hall, and take their seats in silence. The charm of sound surrounds them, floats through the air, mingles with every sigh. A burst of violins heralds an opening symphony. There is indescribable

pathos in this music: it embodies every fantastic hope, every suppressed and passionate yearning. Kate can feel the force of those appealing eyes turned on hers, and has a half sort of criminal conviction she is in heaven, but has no right to be there. Laurence feasts his eyes on her beauty, that pains and maddens him, and which his artistic senses recognise as something too grand, too pure, for earth. And she is not for him!

When the last strains of the violins have faded in the air, Laurence breaks the silence by saying,

'I see you adore music, Mrs. Hamilton; and that symphony was superbly rendered. I should like to paint you as one of the holy Nine. You evidently delight in To-morrow you must let me see your paintings. To look at you is to be reminded of sunlight and harmony.'

art.

This is too enchanting. Kate blushes divinely, and resolves to work harder than ever. If Laurence will superintend her pictures she may achieve something of real intrinsic merit. Is it for his voice to stir the latent force of the ambition slumbering in her soul?

But now there is a song to be heard. The exquisite melody of Vaccai floats towards them, Romeo's impassioned address to Juliet; and this time meeting Laurence's gaze, Kate trembles. Why had she married Ernest when she had never felt love's intoxication?

'Ah! se tu dormi, svegliate,
Sorgi, mio ben; mia speme,
Vieni, fuggiarmo insieme;
Vieni, amor ci condurrà.'

Laurence repeats the sweet Italian words softly after the singer; and this time his hand rests on Kate's gray-gloved one. They are as far removed from earth as two persons in a distant planet. Their veins throb with the same emotion -their pulses beat in unison.