Mr. Lind smiled complacently:  he knew Douglas, if not Athens, better, but was in too tolerant a humor to say so.  Little more passed between the two until they reached Westbourne Terrace, where Marian and her cousin were dressing for dinner.  When Marian came down, her beauty so affected Douglas that his voice was low and his manner troubled as he greeted her.  He took her in to dinner, and sat in silence beside her, heedless alike of his host’s commonplaces and Miss McQuinch’s acridities.

Mr. Lind unceremoniously took a nap after his wine that evening, and allowed his guest to go upstairs alone.  Douglas hoped that Elinor would be equally considerate, but, to his disappointment, he found her by herself in the drawing-room.  She hastened to explain.

“Marian is looking for some music.  She will be back directly.”

He sat down and took an album from the table, saying:  “Have you many new faces here?”

“Yes.  But we never discard old faces for new ones.  It is the old ones that are really interesting.”

“I have not seen this one of Mr. Lind before.  It is capital.  Ah! this of you is an old friend.”

“Yes.  What do you think of the one of Constance on the opposite page?”

“She looks as if she were trying to be as lugubrious as possible.  What dress is that?  Is it a uniform?”

“Yes.  She joined a nursing guild.  Didnt Mrs. Douglas tell you?”

“I believe so.  I forgot.  She went into a cottage hospital or something of that kind, did she not?”

“She left it because one of the doctors offended her.  He was rather dreadful.  He said that in two months she had contributed more to the mortality among the patients than he had in two years, and told her flatly that she had been trained for the drawing-room and ought to stay there.  She was glad enough to have an excuse for leaving; for she was heartily sick of making a fool of herself.”

“Indeed!  Where is she now?”

“Back at Towers Cottage, moping, I suppose.  That’s Mr. Conolly the inventor, there under Jasper.”

“So I perceive.  Clever head, rather!  A plain, hard nature, with no depths in it.  Is that his wife, with the Swiss bonnet?”

“His wife!  Why, that is a Swiss girl, the daughter of a guide at Chamounix, who nursed Marian when she sprained her ankle.  Mr. Conolly is not married.”

“I thought men of his stamp always married early.”

“No.  He is engaged, and engaged to a lady of very good position.”

“He owes that to the diseased craving of modern women for notoriety of any sort.  What an admirable photograph of Marian!  I never saw it before.  It is really most charming.  When was it taken?”

“Last August, at Geneva.  She does not like it—­thinks it too coquettish.”

“Then perhaps she will give it to me.”

“She will be only too glad, I daresay.  You have caught her at a soft moment to-night.”