“How do you propose to go home?” said Douglas.

“Walk to St. James’s Street, where the carriage is waiting at the club; take Uncle Reginald with us; and drive home through the park,” said Elinor.

“I will come with you as far as the club, if you will allow me,” said Douglas.

Conolly then took leave of them, and stood still until they disappeared, when he returned to the courtyard, and went up to his sister’s carriage.

“Well, Susanna,” said he.  “How are you?”

“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” she replied carelessly, her eyes filling with tears, nevertheless.

“I hear that I have been an uncle for some time past.”

“Yes, on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“What is its name?” he said more gravely.

“Lucy.”

“Is it quite well?”

“I suppose not.  According to Nurse, it is always ill.”

Conolly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into the cynical manner in which he had used to talk with his sister.  “Tired of it already?” he said.  “Poor little wretch!”

“It is very well off,” she retorted, angrily:  “a precious deal better than I was at its age.  It gets petting enough from its father, heaven knows!  He has nothing else to do.  I have to work.”

“You have it all your own way at the theatre now, I suppose.  You are quite famous.”

“Yes,” she said, bitterly.  “We are both celebrities.  Rather different from old times.”

“We certainly used to get more kicks than halfpence.  However, let us hope all that is over now.”

“Who were those women who were with you a minute ago?”

“Cousins of Lind.  Miss Marian Lind and Miss McQuinch.”

“I remember.  She is pretty.  I suppose, as usual, she hasnt an idea to bless herself with.  The other looks more of a devil.  Now that you are a great man, why dont you marry a swell?”

“I intend to do so.”

“The Lord help her then!”

“Amen.  Good-bye.”

“Oh, good-bye.  Go on to Soho,” she added, to the coachman, settling herself fretfully on the cushions.

CHAPTER IX

On Monday morning Douglas received a note inviting him to lunch at Mr. Lind’s club.  He had spent the greater part of the previous night composing a sonnet, which he carried with him in his pocket to St. James’s Street.  Mr. Lind received him cordially; listened to an account of his recent stay abroad; and described his own continental excursions, both gentlemen expressing great interest at such coincidences as their having put up at the same hotel or travelled by the same line of railway.  When luncheon was over, Mr. Lind proposed that they should retire to the smoking-room.

“I should like to have a few words with you first, as we are alone here,” said Douglas.

“Certainly,” said Mr. Lind, assuming a mild dignity in anticipation of being appealed to as a parent.  “Certainly, Sholto.”