could not communicate to him much more agreeably—­the philosopher was not the less resolved on personally informing his son of the parental concession which rescued him from Chinese exile.  The result was a sudden summons to the cottage, which startled Magdalen, but which did not appear to take Frank by surprise.  His filial experience penetrated the mystery of Mr. Clare’s motives easily enough.  “When my father’s in spirits,” he said, sulkily, “he likes to bully me about my good luck.  This message means that he’s going to bully me now.”

“Don’t go,” suggested Magdalen.

“I must,” rejoined Frank.  “I shall never hear the last of it if I don’t.  He’s primed and loaded, and he means to go off.  He went off, once, when the engineer took me; he went off, twice, when the office in the City took me; and he’s going off, thrice, now you’ve taken me.  If it wasn’t for you, I should wish I had never been born.  Yes; your father’s been kind to me, I know—­and I should have gone to China, if it hadn’t been for him.  I’m sure I’m very much obliged.  Of course, we have no right to expect anything else—­still it’s discouraging to keep us waiting a year, isn’t it?”

Magdalen stopped his mouth by a summary process, to which even Frank submitted gratefully.  At the same time, she did not forget to set down his discontent to the right side.  “How fond he is of me!” she thought.  “A year’s waiting is quite a hardship to him.”  She returned to the house, secretly regretting that she had not heard more of Frank’s complimentary complaints.  Miss Garth’s elaborate satire, addressed to her while she was in this frame of mind, was a purely gratuitous waste of Miss Garth’s breath.  What did Magdalen care for satire?  What do Youth and Love ever care for except themselves?  She never even said as much as “Pooh!” this time.  She laid aside her hat in serene silence, and sauntered languidly into the morning-room to keep her mother company.  She lunched on dire forebodings of a quarrel between Frank and his father, with accidental interruptions in the shape of cold chicken and cheese-cakes.  She trifled away half an hour at the piano; and played, in that time, selections from the Songs of Mendelssohn, the Mazurkas of Chopin, the Operas of Verdi, and the Sonatas of Mozart—­all of whom had combined together on this occasion and produced one immortal work, entitled “Frank.”  She closed the piano and went up to her room, to dream away the hours luxuriously in visions of her married future.  The green shutters were closed, the easy-chair was pushed in front of the glass, the maid w as summoned as usual; and the comb assisted the mistress’s reflections, through the medium of the mistress’s hair, till heat and idleness asserted their narcotic influences together, and Magdalen fell asleep.

It was past three o’clock when she woke.  On going downstairs again she found her mother, Norah and Miss Garth all sitting together enjoying the shade and the coolness under the open portico in front of the house.