“And dry my repentant tears on his apron, the old hypocrite,” said Marmaduke, speaking rather more loudly than before.  “Well, we must be trotting.  We are going to the South Kensington Museum—­to improve our minds.”

“Why, that is where we are going; at least, Constance is.  She is going to work at her painting while I pay a round of visits.  Wont you come with us?”

“Thank you:  I’d rather walk.  A man should have gloves and a proper hat for your sort of travelling.”

“Nonsense! you look very nice.  Besides, it is only down the Brompton Road.”

“The worst neighborhood in London to be seen in with me.  I know all sorts of queer people down Brompton way.  I should have to bow to them if we met; and that wouldnt do before her,”—­indicating Constance, who was conversing with Douglas.

“You are incorrigible:  I give you up.  Good-bye, and dont forget to-morrow evening.”

“I wonder,” said Marmaduke, as the carriage drove off, “what she’s saying about me to Constance now.”

“That you are the rudest man in London, perhaps.”

“Serve her right!  I hate her.  I have got so now that I can’t stand that sort of woman.  You see her game, dont you; she can’t get Constance off her hands; and she thinks there’s a chance of me still.  How well she knows about the governor’s state of health!  And Conny, too, grinning at me as if we were the best friends in the world.  If that girl had an ounce of spirit she would not look on the same side of the street with me.”

Douglas, without replying, called a cab.  Marmaduke’s loud conversation was irksome in the street, and it was now clear that he was unusually excited.  At the museum they alighted, and passed through the courts into the grill-room, where they sat down together at a vacant table, and ordered luncheon.

“You were good enough to ask my advice about something,” said Douglas.  “What is the matter?”

“Well,” said Marmaduke, “I am in a fix.  Affairs have become so uncomfortable at home that I have had to take up my quarters elsewhere.”

“I did not know that you had been living at home.  I thought your father and you were on the usual terms.”

“My father!  Look here:  I mean home—­my home.  My place at Hammersmith, not down at the governor’s.”

“Oh!  I beg your pardon.”

“Of course, you know all about my establishment there with Lalage Virtue? her real name is Susanna Conolly.”

“Is it true, then, that she is a cousin of Marian’s husband?”

“Cousin!  She’s his sister, and Marian’s sister-in-law.”

“I never believed it.”