as Kitty had once done. She never imagined that Kitty could get tired of worshipping, and thus was punishing her for shortcomings rather than for actual faults, though it must be admitted that Kitty was a great deal with her new friend Ella Bartelotte, and Myra often alone.

How could she remonstrate with her for showing kindness to a fragile little invalid hardly ever off the sofa? She petted and chafed secretly at losing so much of her friend's society, and wished she had not been persuaded into sending poor Captain Longley away. Kitty, too, regretted that prompt piece of Machiavelian policy, for new ambitions, with which Myra had nothing to do, were cropping up in her mind. One day when she had gone to Ella to consult with her as to their autumn trip, the girl, seeing Kitty's look of beautiful health and capacity, flushed with a feeling half of enthusiasm, half of envy

"You animated, animating thing!" she said. "When I see you I think the Spartans were right in leaving all the sickly babies to die. What use or ornament are we in the world?"

"There are far more beautiful things than health," Kitty said, hanging over the invalid with eyes brimful of sympathy; adding, with charming frankness, "I am handsome, I know; but you have the face of an angel."

"I hate flattery; but I like to be admired by you," Ella answered. "I wonder why it is that people believe in the cant about women not admiring each other? It is quite

untrue."

And then the two had a long discussion about the friendships of men for women, and of women for each other, which ended in Ella growing communicative. Ella complained of the world a good deal in that graceful spirit of eclecticism usual to invalids. Those of sound lungs and limbs say, "I don't like So-and-So;" but to persons of finer organisation it is more usual to deplore that So-and-So is not sympathetic, and that So-and-So does not possess a soul. And to how few acquaintances do eclectic ladies grant souls and sympathies ?

Ella was the kindest, most tender-hearted little being in the world, who would spend an hour over the rescue of a fly drowning in cream; but she was as bitter as Diogenes towards any one who had no eye for colour, no ear for Beethoven, or no critical appreciation of the poetry she loved. She was even harder upon what she called persons conjugated in one mood—that is to say,. people of no enthusiasms, and scant ideas; and this was not the first time that she had poured complaints into Kitty's ears of the unsympathetic or the one-mooded.

"I get so tired of living with people who have no more capacity of growing than brick walls," she said. "How happy Mrs Wingfield must be in having a friend like you! You grow more than any one I know. I believe there isn't a day but proves a revelation of some kind to you.”

Kitty's face beamed.

"I do enjoy life more than most people," she said; "but the more one enjoys the more one criticises, that is the worst cannot alter circumstances so easily as you can

of it;
and you
criticise them."

"But you would hardly alter your circumstances?" asked Ella, wistfully. "Free, strong, bright, happy, who would not

be you

"Oh!" Kitty cried, laughing, "one can never judge from the outside. Myra and I love each other dearly; but we were not born to live together, that is all."

Ella would fain have learned more, but was too delicate to ask questions. She persisted in talking of Kitty and Kitty's affairs, however, till Sir George came in, who, seeing Ella quite changed from the drooping, weary thing he had left an hour ago, was ready to fall at her friend's feet. He liked Kitty, admired her splendid.stature, her bright wit, her clear, asserting intellect; and Kitty had gone a little out of her way to please him, for no explicable reasons.

She cared for Ella and Ella's surroundings, and somehow never found Sir George too tiresome, though he would discourse for hours upon books of which she knew nothing. One can forgive

much in a host who is lavish in providing pleasures. Sir George did not care how largely he spent money upon Ella's visitors, providing the daintiest musical fêtes, pic-nics, déjeûners; and Kitty of all others had aided and abetted him in catering for the daily feast, and afterwards enjoying it. So Sir George liked Kitty, and admired her too, and knew well enough that he and Ella had no more fervent admirer anywhere. With Kitty it was always "What does Sir George say?" or, "What does darling Ella think?" or, "Do you both think so-both?" looking from father to daughter appealingly.

The matter in hand was most satisfactorily settled for the time being, by Sir George promising to see one or two of Ella's physicians at once as to the quality of the baths at Ischl or at Arcachon. Kitty had discerned these places with safe enthusiasm, feeling sure that neither in the Austrian Tyrol nor in the Pyrenees, her sins, or rather her lovers, would find her out. The physician's opinion was to be conveyed to Kitty and Myra that night, and meantime they decided to leave Fontainebleau in three days. Kitty went to Paris next day to buy travelling dresses, pleased with the issue of events hitherto, and very thoughtful about the future. She had done her best to make new friends and allies from day to day, thus insuring herself against unlooked-for contingencies, and battled bravely with old affections and loves that would sometimes try for mastery. And she was certainly strengthening her outworks, and making her position stronger. Thinking of these things as she passed along the crowded Rue St Honoré, glancing in the gay shop windows from time to time, she caught sight of two faces that she knew.

It was Laura and Perry, and Perry was evidently helping Laura to choose a pair of slippers. He held two shoes in his hands, one bright and new, the other old and worn, measuring them sole to sole, as carefully as he had measured shoes for Kitty in the old days, his boyish face solemnly eager, his goldbrown hair blown about more than ever. Laura stood by, watching him with the face of a happy child.

Kitty turned away from the pretty picture, feeling suddenly

heart-sick, soul-sick. How beautiful he was, how true, how good! Yet she could not love him.

She walked hastily on, troubled with the suggestions of the scene. Surely Laura was not falling in love with Perry? Surely Mrs Cornford was not encouraging such a folly? She knew only too well that Perry was hers, heart and soul; but she could not answer for what he might do if driven to desperation. Laura and Dr Norman must be saved at any cost; and no sooner had she reached her hotel than she despatched a letter to Laura, begging her to come to the hotel early next day, without saying a word to any living soul. This was the first time she had communicated with any of her old friends in the Rue de Trévise since the killing of the fatted calf; but she felt that it would be more than heartless to keep silent If she could not become Dr Norman's wife, she would at least prove his friend. The thought was consolatory.

now.

CHAPTER XXXII.

IRE AMANTIUM, ETC.

FOLLY is a fair supper, but a miserable breakfast. Laura and Perry met after her installation in the Rue de Trévise with downcast eyes and sudden little blushes, looking like children who have stolen cherries and expect a whipping. Perry could not acquit himself of having aided and abetted Laura's contrivances to come; and now that she was among them, he wished himself away. What good could he do her? What good could she do him? It was sweet to have her sympathy, as it is sweet to any man to have the sympathy of a gentle, loving child-woman, and Laura's influence had really stayed Perry on the road to ruin. But if the feeling on her side should grow into something else?

So where poor Laura had looked for wells of comfort she found thirsty deserts only, and her young heart swelled with

She had done nothing to

the bitterness of indignation. warrant Perry's coldness, nothing to deserve his neglect, and he seemed on the alert to be cold and neglectful. All his old tenderness of manner, half protective, half appealing, was wanting; and if by chance they were left alone together, which happened seldom, he would busy himself with a book, or talk in a constrained way about common things.

The very first opportunity that Perry could get of speaking privately to Mrs Cornford he poured out his sins, craving absolution. He knew how wrong his conduct had been in making a confidant of Laura; he knew that he could never love any woman but Kitty; he knew that he had been drawn to Laura by her child-like love and pity for him. Laura was young and able to forget; he was weak, but able to make a great effort when occasion required, and occasion required a great effort now.

"And what do all these fine speeches tend to?" asked Mrs Cornford, smiling. "You are never to be less trusted, Perry, than when you have delivered yourself of some excellent resolution, for the first thing you do is to go and break it. I know your ways. If you came to me vowing and declaring that you were over head and ears in love with little Laura and Kitty both, and must marry Laura because Kitty won't marry you, I should have some hopes of you."

"Every one is wise once in their life," Perry answered, "and I am going to be wise now. It is a horrid punishment to me to make that sweet child hate me; but she shall do that rather than ".

"Tut-tut-tut!" cried Mrs Cornford.

"Oh! you don't know how I love her," Perry said, with the utmost simplicity; then catching Mrs Cornford's convicting look, he added, "I mean, how I love Kitty."

"Oh! what a man may do, and yet not think himself an ass! Perugino, I love thee like a mother, but do not ask me to listen when thou brayest."

And Mrs Cornford drove him out of the room with her maulstick. When she heard the door of his study shut in a