that she had inflicted the deepest pain on me.  Her penitence was the beginning of the sentimental side of our acquaintance.  Had you recognized that she was a woman with as good a right as you to know the truth concerning all matters in this world which she has to make her way through, you would have answered her question, and then I suppose I should have gone away without having exchanged a word with her on any more personal matters than induction coils and ohms of resistance; and in all probability you would have been spared the necessity of having me for a brother-in-law.”

“Well, sir,” said the Rev. George dejectedly, “if what you say be true, I cannot understand Marian, I can only grieve for her.  I shall not argue with you on the nature of the influence you have obtained over her.  I shall speak to her myself; since you will not hear me.”

“That is hardly fair.  I have heard you, and am willing to hear more, if you have anything new to urge.”

“You have certainly listened to my voice, Mr. Conolly.  But I fear I have used it to very little purpose.”

“You will fail equally with Marian, believe me.  Even I, whose ability to exercise influence you admit, never obtained the least over my own sister.  She knew me too well on my worst side and not at all on my best.  If, as I presume, your father has tried in vain, what hope is there for you?”

“Only my humble trust that a priest may be blessed in his appeal to duty even where a father’s appeal to natural affection has been disregarded.”

“Well, well,” said Conolly, kindly, rising as his visitor disconsolately prepared to go, “you can try. I got on by dint of dogged faith in myself.”

“And I get on by lowly faith in my Master.  I would I could imbue you with the same feeling!”

Conolly shook his head; and they went downstairs in silence.  “Hallo!” said he, as he opened the door, “it is raining.  Let me lend you a coat.”

“Thank you, no.  Not at all.  Good-night,” said the clergyman, quickly, and hastened away through the rain from Conolly’s civilities.

When he arrived at Westbourne Terrace, there was a cab waiting before the house.  The door was opened to him by Marian’s maid, who was dressed for walking.

“Master is in the drawing-room, sir, with Miss McQuinch,” she said, meaning, evidently, “Look out for squalls.”

He went upstairs, and found Elinor, with her hat on, standing by the pianoforte, with battle in her nostrils.  Mr. Lind, looking perplexed and angry, was opposite to her.

“George,” said Mr. Lind, “close the door.  Do you know the latest news?”

“No.”

“Marian has run away!”

“Run away!”

“Yes,” said Miss McQuinch.  “She has fled to Mrs. Toplis’s, at St. Mary’s Terrace, with—­as Uncle Reginald was just saying—­a most dangerous associate.”

“With—?”

“With me, in short.”