“Of course,” said Marian, secretly thinking that the satisfaction of shaking his self-possession was cheap at five hundred pounds.  “I keep house at home, and do all sorts of business things.”

Conolly glanced about him vaguely; picked up the piece of waste again as if he had been looking for that; recollected himself; and looked unintelligibly at her.  Her uncertainty as to what he would do next was a delightful sensation:  why, she did not know nor care.  To her intense disappointment, Lord Carbury entered just then, and roused her from what was unaccountably like a happy dream.

Nothing more of any importance happened that day except the arrival of a letter from Paris, addressed to Lady Constance in Marmaduke’s handwriting.  Miss McQuinch first heard of it in the fruit garden, where she found Constance sitting with her arm around Marian’s waist in a summer-house.  She sat down opposite them, at a rough oak table.

“A letter, Nelly!” said Marian.  “A letter!  A letter from Marmaduke!  I have extorted leave for you to read it.  Here it is.  Handle it carefully, pray.”

“Has he proposed?” said Elinor, taking it.

Constance changed color.  Elinor opened the letter in silence, and read: 

  My dear Constance: 

I hope you are quite well.  I am having an awfully jolly time of it here.  What a pity it is you dont come over!  I was wishing for you yesterday in the Louvre, where we spent a pleasant day looking at the pictures.  I send you the silk you wanted, and had great trouble hunting through half-a-dozen shops for it.  Not that I mind the trouble, but just to let you see my devotion to you.  I have no more to say at present, as it is nearly post hour.  Remember me to the clan.

Yours ever,
DUKE.

P.S.—­How do Nelly and your mother get along together?

Whilst Elinor was reading, the gardener passed the summer-house, and Constance went out and spoke to him.  Elinor looked significantly at Marian.

“Nelly,” returned Marian, in hushed tones of reproach, “you have stabbed poor Constance to the heart by telling her that Marmaduke never proposed to her.  That is why she has gone out.”

“Yes,” said Elinor, “it was brutal.  But I thought, as you made such a fuss about the letter, that it must have been a proposal at least.  It cant be helped now.  It is one more enemy for me, that is all.”

“What do you think of the letter?  Was it not kind of him to write—­considering how careless he is usually?”

“Hm!  Did he match the silk properly?”.

“To perfection.  He must really have taken some trouble.  You know how he botched getting the ribbon for his fancy dress at the ball last year.”

“That is just what I was thinking about.  Do you remember also how he ridiculed the Louvre after his first trip to Paris, and swore that nothing would ever induce him to enter it again?”