“I thought you would find it difficult to get away,” said Miss Payne, as she assisted her to remove her travelling dress.  “But I am very pleased to see you again, and to see you looking more like yourself.”

“I feel more like my old self,” returned Katherine, actually kissing Miss Payne—­a kind of treatment exceedingly new to her.

“In fact, I am full of a project which will, I hope, make me much happier.  I will tell you all about it after dinner, if we are alone.  Your advice will be of great value to me.”

“Such as it is, I shall be glad to give it; though I do not suppose you’ll take it unless it suits your wishes.”

“Perhaps not,” said Katherine, laughing; “but I think it will.”

“She is going to marry some fortune-hunting scamp,” thought Miss Payne.  “I was afraid no good would come of her visit to that little dressy dolly sister-in-law of hers.”  She only said, “Dinner will be ready in half an hour, and we shall be quite alone.”

Then she went quickly down stairs to her brother, who was gazing out of the window, but not seeing what he looked at.

“You can’t dine here to-day, Bertie,” said Miss Payne, abruptly, as she entered the room.

“And why not?”

“Because she wants to have some confidential conversation with me after dinner, and we must be alone.”

“Have you any idea what it will be about?”

“No; and I am astonished at your putting the question.  You may come in after church to-morrow if you like.”

“Thank you.  I shall be rather late, as I am going to an open-air service beyond Whitechapel.”

“Well, I do hope you’ll get something to eat after.  Are you going to preach?”

“No.  I seldom preach.  I haven’t the gift of eloquence.”

“Which means you have a little common-sense left.  Really, Gilbert, for a man of thirty-five, or nearly thirty-five, you are too credulous.”

“It is my nature to be so,” he returned, laughing.  “Well, good-by to you.  It is really unkind to turn me out in this unceremonious fashion.”  So saying, with his usual sweet-tempered compliance he departed.

“What a good boy he is!” said Miss Payne to herself, looking at the grate, while by a dual brain action she made a brief calculation as to how much longer she must burn coal.  “He ought to have been a girl.  Why don’t rich young women see that he is the very stuff to make a pleasant husband, instead of those monsters of strength and determination that fools of women make gods of, and themselves door mats for, and often find to be only big pumpkins after all?”

Miss Payne’s anticipations were of the gloomiest when, after their quickly despatched dinner, she settled herself between the fire and window with her favorite tatting, drawing up the knots with vicious energy.  She opened proceedings by an interrogative “Well?” and closed her mouth with a snap.